KANSAS CITY, JWO <f PUBLIC LIBRARY
T
DATE DUE
SEP 1
3 1992
irtftr
UG
Demco. !nc 38-293
. M. , (Edward
Morgan) , 1879-19-70.
Howards end /
1991 .
E V E R V M A N
L f B R A R V
EVERYMAN,
I WILL GO WITH THEE,
AND BE THY GUIDE,
IN THY MOST NEED
TO GO BY THY SIDE
E. M. FORSTER
Howards
End
EVERYMAN'S LIBRARY
Alfred A. Knopf New York
25
THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK
PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF, INC.
First published 1910
First included in Everyman's Library, 1991
Introduction, Bibliography, and Chronology Copyright 1991 by
David Campbell Publishers Ltd.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright
Conventions. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf,
Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House
of Canada Limited, Toronto. Distributed by Random House, Inc.,
New York
ISBN 0-679-40668-9
LC 91-52997
Printed and bound in Germany
INTRODUCTION
Howards End appeared in 1910, a date that explains an
idealism important to our understanding of the book. It was
E. ML Forster's fourth novel. He had written in rapid succes-
sion Where Angels Fear to Tread (1905), The Longest Journey
(1907), and A Room With a View (1908). Howards End -was the
last novel he was to publish for fourteen years. The next, A
Passage to India (1924), was certainly worth waiting for, but is
not as serene and hopeful as Howards End. The 'Great War 5 ,
the most influential event of the twentieth century and the
onset of all our political woe, had intervened between Forster's
two major novels and certainly darkened the second. The
reality of British imperialism, bringing racial politics as a
threat to Forster's belief in personal relationships as the
supreme good, was something unsuspected in Howards End.
In 1910 Forster was thirty-one. In the next sixty years he
was to publish only one novel more, Maurice^ a novel about
homosexual love that had been circulating privately for years,
was published soon after Forster's death in 1970. All these
dates and gaps in Forster's record as a novelist have their
significance. He was a wonderfully supple and intelligent
writer for whom the outside world was a hindrance and even a
threat to his identification of himself and his art with 'relation-
ships' . Everyone knows that he wrote in Two Cheers For
Democracy 4 I hate the idea of causes, and if I had to choose
between betraying my country and betraying my friend, I
hope I should have the guts to betray my country.* But what -
as happened so often in World War II - if my friend betrayed
me for an ideology he considered his only 'country?'
So the date of Howards End has a certain poignance now.
The most famous idea in it is 'Only connect! That was the
whole of her sermon. Only connect the prose and the passion,
and both will be exalted, and human love will be seen at its
height. Live in fragments no longer. Only connect, and the
beast and the monk, robbed of the isolation that is life to
either, will die.' No one with the slightest sense of twentieth-
HOWARDS END
century history can read that in the 19905 without thinking
(not for the first time) how far we have travelled, in liberal,
generous, above all religious instinct, from 1910. Howards End
is a shapely and beautiful novel, extremely well thought out.
One has to read it now as a fable about England at the highest
point of its hopes in 1910, while at its center rises up before us,
as always, England's eternal Chinese wall of class distinctions,
class war, class hatred - a world in which people stink in each
other's nostrils because of their social origins or pretensions: in
which a poor young man who has lost his job and is in the
depths of despair because of his home life, encounters hostility
because he walks down Regent Street without a hat. But
Howards End resolves this war between the English, tries to lift
away this winding sheet of snobberies and taboos, in the only
way it has ever been resolved - in a beautiful theory of love
between persons. This extends just as far as love ever extends.
Meanwhile social rage keeps howling outside the bedroom.
Howards End is a novel of ideas, not brute facts; in many
respects it is an old kind of novel, playful in the eighteenth-
century sense, full of tenderness toward favorite characters in
the Dickens style, inventive in every structural touch but not a
modernist work. A modernist work - Ulysses will always be the
grand, cold monument - is one that supplants and subsumes
the subject entirely in favor of the author as performer and
total original. This is hardly the case in Howards End. Forster
cares; he cares so much about the state of England and the
possibility of deliverance that what occupies him most in
working out the book is a dream of a strife-torn modern
England returning to the myth of its ancient beginnings as a
rural, self-dependent society. It is typical of an undefeatable
tenderness (almost softness) in Forster's makeup that the book
ends in a vision of perfect peace right at the old house in
Hertfordshire, Howards End, that is the great symbol
throughout the book of stability in ancestral, unconscious
wisdom. Even in 1910 this was as absurd - hardly an answer to
the class war. But fairy tales thrive on being of another world.
The class war is hardly an English prerogative, but the
English have been so good at picturing it that it is no wonder
they cannot do without it. Where but in England would that
vi
INTRODUCTION
quirky refugee Karl Marx have found so perfect a ground, a
text, for his belief in the long-established war between the
classes? As I write, I notice in a review by Sir Frank Kermode
of Sir Victor Pritchett's Collected Stories^ Pritchett once had a
conversation with H. G. Wells 'in which they considered the
question of whether lower-class characters could ever be
treated in other than comic terms'. It is noteworthy that Sir
Frank finds it entirely natural to write of 'lower-class charac-
ters 1 and 'suburban little people'. These are phrases that seem
comic to an American - not because America is less divided
than England but because, torn apart as it is by race fear and
hatred, its gods are equality and social mobility.
How different the case in England. Dickens, though he lent
pathos and occasionally even dignity (if not heroism) to his
lower-class characters, certainly delighted in 'treating' them in
comic terms just as much as Shakespeare did. It is hard to
think of any first-class English novelist before Thomas Hardy
who identifies so much with the 'lowly', and gave characters at
the bottom like Jude and Tess so much love and respect.
George Orwell in 1937: 'whichever way you turn, this curse
of class differences confronts you like a wall of stone. Or rather
it is not so much like a wall of stone as the plate glass pane of
an aquarium.* This American was for some months near the
end of World War II in close contact with 'other ranks* in the
British army. Even when lecturing at Cambridge after the
war, he came to see how the college servants lived, as well as
the incomparable beauty of the public surface. These experi-
ences gave glimpses of a side of life in England that explained
the rancor and frustration of postwar English writing - but
also its violent humour. As Edmund Wilson said, the English
Revolution was made in America.
I hasten to add - and Hwoards End is in many respects
specifically about England - that as a subject single and entire
of itself, blissful to the literary imagination, England -
This royal throne of kings, this scept'red isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built by Nature for herself
vii
HOWARDS END
Against infection and the hand of war,
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea
awakens an honest glow in its writers. America is too vast,
heterogeneous, and spiritually mixed up to appear before its
writers as a believable single image. F. Scott Fitzgerald in his
notebooks: 'France was a land, England was a people, but
America, having about it still that quality of the idea, was
harder to utter - it was the graves at Shiloh and the tired,
drawn, nervous faces of its great men, and the country boys
dying in the Argonne for a phrase that was empty before their
bodies withered. It was a willingness of the heart. 5
America certainly has been harder to utter - except in the
most grandiose and boastful terms. By contrast, here is Forster
in Chapter 19 of Howards End, The Schlegel sisters' German
cousin is with them on a tour of the countryside, and because
one of the signal points of this novel is that the characters are
all representative - the English of conflicting attitudes and
cultures, the Germans of different sides of Germany - Forster
here 'interrupts* himself to speak with felt emotion about
England, his England, everyone's England, summed up as
'our island' -
If one wanted to show a foreigner England, perhaps the wisest
course would be to take him to the final section of the Purbeck Hills,
and stand him on their summit, a few miles to the east of Corfe. Then
system after system of our island would roll together under his feet. . .
How many villages appear in this view! How many castles! How
many churches, vanished or triumphant! How many ships, railways,
and roads! What incredible variety of men working beneath that
lucent sky to what final end! The reason fails, like a wave on the
Swanage beach; the imagination swells, spreads, and deepens, until it
become geographic and encircles England.
A few pages on, he inserts into a scene of conflict between
the Schlegel sisters on the incredible thought (to Helen) that
Margaret could even consider marrying the overbearing busi-
nessman Henry Wilcox,
England was alive, throbbing through all her estuaries, crying for
joy through the mouths of her gulls, and the north wind with
viii
INTRODUCTION
contrary emotion, blew stronger against her rising seas, What did it
mean? For what end are her fair complexities, her changes of soil, her
sinuous coast? Does she belong to those who have moulded her and
made her feared by other lands, or those who had added nothing to
her power, but have somehow seen her, seen the whole island at once,
lying as a jewel in a silver sea, sailing in a ship of souls, with all the
brave world's fleet accompanying her towards eternity?
Earlier, Forster had written of 'our race 1 , and later he was to
write of his countrymen and women as 'comrades'. So the
attentive reader comes to see that behind the rivalry and final,
ironic conjunction of Schlegels and Wilcoxes (meaning Mar-
garet and her defeated husband Henry Wilcox) is Forster's
yearning hope (as of IQIQJ that this grievously class-proud,
class-protecting, class-embittered society may yet come to
think of some deeper, more ancient ^comradeship' as one of its
distinguishing marks. Where Forster's belief in "personal rela-
tionships' was founded on Bloomsbury and the Principia Ethica
(1903) of its Cambridge sage G. E. Moore, Forster's invoca-
tion of 'comradeship' no doubt owes much to Edward Car-
penter, a strong defender of homosexuality who was one of the
first English disciples of Walt Whitman.
But 'comradeship' aside for the moment, English literature's
advantage over American literature, so it appeared to the
American critic who helped to make Forster famous in Amer-
ica, Lionel Trilling, is that the class war, class distinctions of
every kind, social rivalries of the most minute (and even
nastiest) kind, are great for literature. As conflict seems to be
the first rule in life, so conflict taken seriously enough, without
sentimental hopes of easy deliverance, is comedy, is tragedy, is
dialogue, is history, is FORCE. Only an Englishman would
have opened Chapter 6 of Howards End with
We are not concerned with the very poor. They are unthinkable,
and only to be approached by the statistician or the poet. This story
deals with gentlefolk, or with those who are obliged to pretend that
they are gentlefolk.
The boy, Leonard Bast, stood at the extreme verge of gentility. He
was not in the abyss, but he could see it.
This would have enraged the Californian novelist and
pioneer socialist, Jack London, who in 1902 went down into
ix
HOWARDS END
the 'horror' of London's poor to write The People of the Abyss, a
powerful document not likely to interest anyone in England
but the Salvation Army. Because Howards End is rooted not
even in Fabian socialism but in the dream of 'personal
relationships', one of the felt tensions in the book is the fear of
war between England and Germany. The Schlegels' father
(now dead) was a German idealist who fought for Prussia
before it took Germany over, and in disgust left for England
and married an Englishwoman. Even the famous German
literary name of 'SchlegeP, connected with August Wilhelm
von SchlegePs translation of Shakespeare, is representative.
Margaret and Helen Schlegel are relative outsiders in English
society not only because they are 'not really English', but
because they have been dangerously infected by some old
idealism from the Germany of poets and philosophers.
So much for the background of Howards End and what we may
fairly take to be Forster's ruling concerns. One must be careful
not to make the book more solemn in tone than it actually is.
It begins with one of the most informal and delightful open-
ings in modern fiction, a thoroughly unexpected way of
proceeding that shows just how far 1910 has departed from
Victorian heaviness. (The Queen died just nine years before.)
'One might just as well begin with Helen's letters to her sister.'
This is so Forsterian - easy in its approach altogether unpre-
tentious, of course wily - that it is not until one goes back over
the book, with the house, Howards End, staying in mind as the
embodiment of Forster's image of a traditional and supposedly
'safe* England, that one realizes how altogether clever the
opening is.
Helen SchlegePs first excited letter from Howards End,
occupied by the bustling, proprietary Wilcoxes, who do not
understand all it means to its original and true owner, their
wife and mother Mrs Wilcox, nevertheless firmly posits the
house at the thematic center of the book. The house alone -
with Mrs Wilcox as its frail but presiding spirit - is England.
The sisters are, at the beginning, as far from the soul of the
house as the Wilcoxes are. But a story has to begin somewhere,
INTRODUCTION
anywhere, so this story begins with Helen's innocent rapture
at getting away to the country from Wickham Place in
London. What is oldest and most meaningful about the
house's significant surroundings - the great wych-tree and the
pig's teeth long ago driven into the trunk - are to Helen only-
unusual and charming. Yet one day, amazingly enough, this
house will become the home of Margaret and Helen and
Helen's son by the unfortunate Leonard Bast, dead at the
hand of Charles Wilcox hammering him with the flat of a
sword that is itself a memorial of "old' England.
The opening is a fairy tale, in all naivete and innocence,
because of Helen's premature joy in the house and her crush
on Paul Wilcox, the younger brother. The resolution of the
book will be another fairy tale, all too set up and thinly
prophetic, about the final, strange, tragically enforced
occupation of Howards End by the sisters, Helen's son, and
Margaret's husband Henry Wilcox, crushed by his son's
imprisonment for manslaughter.
Between the brief, illusionary idyll of the opening and the
willed idyll of the end (a problem for any reader who knows
how little England lived up to the rosiness of the book's
conclusion) we get the delicious social comedy of the first
conflict between the Wilcoxes and the Schlegels. They met as
tourists in the Rhineland, looking at - or was it looking for? -
medieval castles. An invitation to Howards End ensued. We
are now to see acted out 'the rift in the lute', as one English
historian described the many distinctions that make one
English person so routinely despise another. For all the
idealism among some of the educated in 1910, the distinctions
were bright and distinct (sometimes as lethal), as ever. It is
true that 1910 - to judge by the sunny moral atmosphere that
prevails in Howards End- was a period of hope. Forster, like all
his Cambridge friends, had indeed taken to heart the precious
words from G. E, Moore's Priwifria Ethica: 'By far the most
valuable things . . are . . . the pleasures of human intercourse
and the enjoyment of beautiful objects; it is they . . . that form
the rational, ultimate end of social progress.* All this allowed
Forster to weave possibilities around his famous injunction -
'Only connect!' Fourteen years later, after the most terrible
xi
HOWARDS END
slaughter of Englishmen in a single day at the Somme, Forster
evidently found it harder to say of his English and Hindu
protagonists in A Passage to India 'Only connect!' His beloved
India itself stood in the way.
There is even a half-spoken religious touch to Howards End,
characteristic of this very conscientious writer descended from
members of the nineteenth-century Evangelical Clapham
Sect. Early in the book Margaret Schlegel says of the already
ominous English-German rivalry, 'Her conclusion was that
any human being lies nearer the unseen than any organiza-
tion, and from this she never varied.' Mrs Wilcox haunts the
book because her sense of tradition is involuntary and sub-
liminal, involved with the 'unseen'. She represents spiritual
qualities not evident to the chattering sophisticates Margaret
uselessly tries to involve at a luncheon party.
The comedy so rich in Howards End begins with the Schle-
gels' intrusive Aunt Juley taking it on herself to go down to
Howards End when word comes from impulsive Helen that
she and Paul are in love. 'Love' in 1910 means engagement,
engagement marriage, marriage the entwining of families
perhaps not meant to be entwined. Aunt Juley may be a fool,
but she is a proper Englishwoman who knows how serious are
the implications jutting out of the juvenile words 'Paul and I
are in love - the younger son who only came here Wednesday.'
We have the house, Howards End, described from the outside
by Helen soon after her visit. And now we have Aunt Juley's
confrontation with the older brother, Charles Wilcox, as they
come on each other at the railway station.
Barriers everywhere. Charles Wilcox is totally peremptory,
Aunt Juley more than slightly befuddled. She can barely make
clear her concern about her niece, and Charles, who has had
some initial difficulty grasping the fact that his very own
brother Paul is involved, is insufferable in his superiority. We
are in the comedy country of English folk viscerally unable to
tolerate each other on sight. Aren't Charles and Aunt Juley
both gentlefolk? Even in her first illusory enchantment with
Howards End, Helen had admitted to Margaret 'We live like
fighting cocks. 3 'Mr Wilcox says the most horrid things about
women's suffrage so nicely, and when I said I believed in
xii
INTRODUCTION
equality he just folded his arms and gave me such a setting
down as Fve never had.'
There is no difference of opinion between Charles and Aunt
Juley. Both are against any possible engagement between
Helen and Paul. The issue between them is that they are
prepared to mistrust and misunderstand each other. The
world of 'distinctions' is made even more graphic by Charles
Wilcox's exasperation with the old station porter for not
fetching a package to him immediately he calls for it. In his
unbridled hauteur he cannot take it in that Aunt Juley even
thinks him Paul. And Charles is too proprietary about his
'motor* even when there is no way of getting rid of Juley
besides inviting her to get into it. This Wilcox 4 motor" is quite
a presence in the book. No motor, no status. No status, no
Wilcoxes. Schlegels (at least in 1910) cannot possibly have a
motor. Henry and Aunt Juley exchange insults 4 Capping
Families, a round of which is always played when love would
unite two members of our race. But they played it with
unusual vigour, stating in so many words that Schlegels were
better than Wiicoxes, Wilcoxes better than Schlegels. They
flung decency aside.* Earlier, we have had a hint that love
between Paul and Helen is easily thwarted. Helen writes to
Margaret that Paul "is mad with terror in case I said the
wrong thing'. But now, as Henry and Aunt Juley descend from
the motor at Howards End in unseemly anger, a voice from
the garden reproves, calms, and because of who she is, blesses.
It is Mrs Wilcox.
Mrs Wilcox, who dies early in the book, leaving her spirit to
descend upon her family without their quite knowing or using
it, is the representative character in the book who is deepest
and speaks the least. Her spirit, already so rooted in Howards
End, becomes essential to Margaret, who tries to understand
her mysterious authority and perhaps never does so fully even
when she becomes Henry Wilcox's wife and comes to occupy
Howards End. As has often been noted, E. M. Forster 'had a
thing about old ladies'. It is extraordinary how Mrs Wilcox
comes to dominate the book. She is far more impressive than
the easily befuddled Mrs Moore in A Passage to India. She
embodies natural inheritance, not the solicited kind, and
xiii
HOWARDS END
certainly not the frantic striving for property and position sc
central to her husband and children. Over whom she has noi
the slightest influence! Who and what is she that she is sc
important to Forster? She is what does not need to be
explained and totally cannot be - the transmission of spirit,
not of biological life. The ancientness of the wych elm and the
folklore embodied in the pig's teeth driven into the tree (it was
long believed that a piece of the bark would cure toothache)
represent the agelessness of a simple truth that cannot be put
into words. One can only live it, so very briefly, as Mrs Wilcox
dies in her fifties, and with the fragility of the dying pass it on,
sibyl-like, as in a shadowy note from the hospital she indicates
that 'Margaret Schlegel is to have Howards End'.
The great thing about Mrs Wilcox is that she does not know
all she knows. She is above or below the fever and the fret of
modern English life, which is typified by a lasting insecurity
where to live next. When Margaret and Helen have to move
from Wickham Place in London (they never find another
London flat, since Howards End is their destiny), Mrs Wilcox
is horrified. To be parted from your house, your father's house
- it oughtn't to be allowed. It is worse than dying. I would
rather die than - Oh, poor girls! Can what they call civiliza-
tion be right if people mayn't die in the room where they were
born? 5
Forster allows us to infer that Mrs Wilcox is not unwilling to
die in a world fundamentally unintelligible to her. I should
add that her virtue consists in her seeming insignificant to her
own family. Leaving Howards End to Margaret, a compara-
tive stranger, proves to the Wilcoxes how very odd their
mother was. And of course they even suspect Margaret of
conniving at the suspect and baffling bequest. But does Mrs
Wilcox's strange wish mean that the 'inheritance' of the house
- by implication, England - is now safe in the hands of
'intellectuals' like the Schlegels, whose most noteworthy
characteristic, not always honored in the novel, is their ample
supply of abstract good will? This is the optimism of 1910, this
is perhaps even Bloomsbury (Forster was not central to it),
with its cardinal optimism that persons may yet be stronger
than institutions. Still, Forster's fairy tale rests on Margaret,
xiv
INTRODUCTION
Helen, and Helen's baby by Leonard Bast occupying How-
ards End at the last. This is certainly an ideal ending of sorts.
But isn't Forster too shrewd to allow the reader to take this as
anything more than a dream of peace?
And there is this problem with Mrs Wilcox. Her dying so
early in the book, though crucial to the plot, may also be taken
as the weakness of such wonderful 'old' ladies, like the
befuddlement of Mrs Moore at the caves of Marabar in A
Passage to India that results in so much trouble for innocent Dr
Aziz and poisons him against the English. 'Mrs Wilcox has left
few indications behind her,' Forster writes with double-edged
irony about a woman deep without being clever. Can it be
that Mrs Wilcox is in her total self-containment without
intellect of the pushing, urban, altogether modern kind? To
Mrs Wilcox alone is it not necessary or urgent to say 'Only
connect!' She 25 connection, of the most wonderful silent kind.
Typical of Forster, in a passing aside, to tell us that Mrs
Wilcox is a Quaker, while Henry Wilcox and his family,
originally Dissenters, are now safe and proper in the Church of
England. Mrs Wilcox is important because she is Other. Far,
far from Howards End and its tutelary mistress are the social
rivalries and distinctions and snobberies that dispossess fellow
human beings. Which is why the poor, easily floored clerk
Leonard Bast is in all his cultural confusions and social
strivings so important to the book.
Leonard is not a character E. M. Forster knows by heart, as
he does Margaret, Helen and even their laid-back little
brother Tibby. Nor is he a character like Henry Wilcox whom
Forster knows from the hard social evidence around him. The
rising Henry Wilcoxes were - now are - everywhere. Poor
little Leonard at the bottom of the lower - lowest! - middle
class is a mere clerk, the kind Bloomsbury knew only across a
very wide gulf. Virginia Woolf in her diary for 1922 on Uljsses
saw it all as
a queasy undergraduate scratching his pimples ... An illiterate,
underbred book it seems to me, the book of a self-taught working-
man, & we all know how distressing they are, how egotistic, insistent,
raw, striking & ultimately nauseating. When one can have cooked
flesh, why have the raw?*
xv
HOWARDS END
And then there was John Maynard Keynes writing to
Duncan Grant some years earlier 'I must go to tea now to
meet some bloody working men who will be I expect as ugly as
men can be.' But Leonard Bast is not even a working man.
Bloomsbury could not have imagined a working man, since
such did not - certainly not in 1910 - listen to Beethoven's
Fifth at the Queen's Hall or try to follow Ruskin's verbal
ecstasies over architecture in The Stones of Venice. Leonard was
imaginable to Forster because he was 'an illiterate, underbred'
striver after CULTURE, and Forster and friends certainly
had a lot of that. When Forster said in his splendid book,
Aspects of the jYbztf/, that a character is real to the reader when
the novelist knows all about the character, he was perhaps
congratulating himself for knowing Leonard up and down as a
social type - the hanger-on where he does not belong, the
ultimate in pathos and powerlessness. Why so much of both?
Why so much wretchedness without respite to Leonard Bast?
Because being neither bourgeois nor working man but a clerk
in an insurance company looking to better himself. A snob
without justification, always looking up the backsides of those
he finds it natural to idealize, he is the type a mandarin of
culture finds unbearable. He is the type the English most
easily sacrifice and dismiss. Leonard has no party and no
friends or associates. He is uneasy with his live-in 'companion',
Jackie, who is lower-class all right but somehow contemptible
because she lives with the likes of him.
Let us face it: Leonard Bast does not know his place, and
that is far worse than having some place, even at the bottom.
Meeting Margaret Schlegel at the concert hall where Beetho-
ven's Fifth will manifest 'panic and emptiness' in its growling
ups and downs and finally wonderful resurgence of the human
spirit over its private terror, Leonard becomes a bother from
the very first because of his social unsuredness. 'She wished
that he was not so anxious to hand a lady downstairs, or to
carry a lady's programme for her his class was near enough
her own for its manners to vex her.' Near enough her own?
Remember that Leonard was early defined by Forster by class
or near-class as standing 'at the extreme verge of gentility. He
was not in the abyss, but he could see it.* Leonard is not so
xvi
INTRODUCTION
much created as defined. That is the advantage to a novelist of a
class system. Leonard is the sort of hard-luck character the
English happily accept in literature because one - isn't one? -
is so easily resigned to such a fate, to the abyss. Leonard has no
hope about anything. He was meant from all eternity to be
squashed. Before long - thanks to the Schlegek transmitting
Henry Wilcox's ill-founded belief in the instability of the
Porphyrion Insurance Company, Leonard resigns his job, and
soon will have no other.
What is irking about Leonard is that he is all too easily
defined. Nobody in the book, beginning with himself, believes
in Leonard. Jackie's acquaintance with him is limited to the
bedroom. Forster - like the academic critics who, discussing
Howards End, also smirk over this - has his fun describing
Leonard's ridiculous efforts to follow Ruskin's Stones of Venice.
Culture is the only property some academics have, and as
Plato said, property is the greatest passion. Still, nobody, even
in a novel, can be so ignorantly pretentious without ceasing to
exist. What saves Leonard for Forster is a) Leonard is a social
specimen defined by his irritating all the other classes -
remember the hostility he encounters when, in the greatest
distress, he walks down Regent Street without a hat! - and b)
he is the sacrificial victim all the others demand - even Helen,
who bears his child - so that Forster can get on with his plot.
Forster's plot depends on Leonard being discardable. So, in
the end, Leonard is the victim of Henry Wilcox's hypocritical
self-righteousness (Jackie was once Henry's mistress) and of
Charles Wilcox's ferocious sense of class superiority. It is
nothing but his sense of rightful domination that leads him to
knock down Leonard with the flat of the ancestral sword that
has hung so long on the wall at Howards End. This induces
Leonard to fall against the book cases in such a way as to bring
the books tumbling down all over him (a nice touch) and he
dies of a heart attack. Poor poor Leonard! Yet such is the
neatly calculated hierarchical structure at the essence of the
novel that without Leonard's intrusion into Howards End and
his dying there, Charles Wilcox would not be imprisoned for
manslaughter and his father would not collapse. This leaves
Margaret and Helen and Helen's baby by Leonard (it was the
xvii
HOWARDS END
supposed 'seduction' of Helen by a lower-class type that so
outraged the Wilcoxes) free to occupy Howards End. This
answers the question said to be at the heart of the book - Who
will inherit England? The Schlegels have triumphed over the
Wilcoxes - why not say over all Wilcoxes? Which is lovely
nonsense.
Forster was a clever plot-maker, and, not altogether surpris-
ingly, very fond of getting things moving by way of a little
violence now and then. There is a lot of plot in Howards End
because there are a lot of class barriers to move past in a
society that on the surface, at least, is constructed of barriers,
If Leonard in his pursuit of cultural improvement had not
gone to hear Beethoven at the Queen's Hall, Helen Schlegel
would not have mistakenly gone off with his umbrella. Mar-
garet therefore has to take him back to Wickham Place for the
umbrella. Whereupon Margaret and Helen sort of take him
up, a little out of pity, much out of intellectual's liberalism
suitable to the freshening winds of 1910. When Leonard
brokenly describes an ecstatic solitary walk at night, they are
stirred, amused, not unmixed with curiosity about such a
social specimen. Finally, when on Henry Wilcox's arrogant
say-so, Leonard is encouraged by the sisters to give up his
clerkship, he soon finds himself unemployable.
Better not to ask why Leonard then gives up in total despair.
There is a formula to such things in the English novel, which
contains no Huckleberry Finns 'lighting out for the territory'
when they are held in by civilization. The adjustment of
accident to circumstance being everything in a novel so
thoroughly plotted, it turns out that Jackie was carnally
known to Henry Wilcox, which gives Margaret a moral
advantage over Henry. Helen is so torn with pity for Leonard
that she comes to bear his son, and this is necessary so that
Leonard will die, almost ritually, by sword, making Leonard's
son and his descendants the heirs of- 'England?' Paul Wilcox,
preparing to go back to Africa on imperial business, crudely
refers to 'piccaninnies'. The word means *a Negro child - said
to be offensive'. So Leonard's class ignominy, transferred to
the child's illegitimacy, has become one of race.
Paul Wilcox may rant as he likes, but the inheritance on
xviii
INTRODUCTION
which the book ends is romantic. And indeed there are many
romantic and vaguely 'mystical' touches to the book, in the
form of apothegms or asides by Forster himself. "Only
connect!' 'Personal relations are the important thing for ever
and ever, and not this outer life of telegrams and anger." 1 4 OnIy
connect! That was the whole of her sermon. Only connect
the prose and the passion, and both will be exalted, and
human love will be seen at its highest. 1 And this - almost
Dostoyevskian - 'Death destroys a man; the idea of death
saves him.'
The force behind these noble sentences is that they are
noble, and reminds us of a certain pre-igi4 spirituality, even
of the D. H. Lawrence in his Biblical and Utopian phase who
was so friendly to Forster and Howards End when still in
England. But in what sense can 'Only connect!' be taken as a
solution to the war of the classes, the war of social distinctions,
the war between good manners and manners that are merely
observant of better manners?
Important as the phrase was to Forster himself, it can be
said that while this was an injunction he obeyed as a man and
made the basis of his intimate life, he also distrusted it - it
could become too special. Bloomsbury believed in ''personal
relations' because it consisted of friends and lovers. Forster
may not have been a genius like Virginia Woolf. Her genius
lay in her ability to give consistency to her hallucinatory sense
of consciousness, her ability as a novelist to show us the actual
rhythms through which the mind at its deepest levels moves.
By contrast, Forster the novelist is worldly. He was a man of
exquisite social sensibility 3 well aware of conflict as the space
through which we must always move. Along with this went a
highly developed kindliness toward all creatures that probably
arose from his sense of his own difficult sexuality, his identifica-
tion with women (ancestral and *old*-seeming women). He
endured many slights as a man, as a writer many reproaches
for seeming altogether too sinewy and inconsistent in the style
of his beloved Montaigne. He was in Bloomsbury without
being altogether of it - he had conscience.
Though Forster said he preferred Montaigne and Erasmus
to Moses and St Paul, he certainly believed in righteousness as
xix
HOWARDS END
well as personal grace. The problem he faced in Howards End-
the social war, the class war, the manners war, the war of
historic English hardness and even cruelty between the classes,
was something that demanded a solution of him as it did not of
his friends in Bloomsbury. They were preoccupied not only
with 'personal relations' but with modernism in art and
psychology. Because of Cezanne and Freud, it seems, Virginia
Woolf could say that human nature had 'changed' around
1908. Forster was not a modernist in this sense, her sense. She
was preoccupied with style as the structure necessary to
narratives of interior consciousness. Howards End is not an
experimental novel. The transitions and unexpected violence
in it are surprising and in a sense delightful; they are there to
move the story, not to reflect the author's originality. The style
is not only not subliminal, it is a form of conversation with the
reader. And the reader, not stunned by Forster as he is by
Joyce or Woolf, happily joins in. Howards End is a classical
English novel, more like Jane Austen than like Virginia Woolf.
The subject is classical - the social distrust between people,
some of whom actually love each other but because of
'differences' cannot easily live together. All handled with
ingenuity, a bracing comic sense, a certain degree of what we
now call 'mysticism* (we are so unfamiliar with religious
feeling in novelists), but was just Forster's manifest sense of
decency, his strong ethical sense, disarming in its casual tone.
Howards End is a superb and wholly cherishable novel, one that
admirers have no trouble reading over and again.
One problem remains - how are we to take the fairy-tale
resolution of the novel? How seriously are we to take this as
any kind of solution or culmination? Max Beerbohm, who
loved the first part of the book, was scornful of the rest. No
doubt he thought it sentimental, much too willed. This is an
understandable point that admirers of the book can accept
without suffering, since they are so delighted with the intelli-
gence of the book as a whole. This is particularly true of
Americans, whose novels can never resemble Howards End in
the slightest, and who can be as uncritical of the book as they
are of the English countryside at its best. The novel is a lovely
shapely object, a triumph of brilliant plotting and human
xx
INTRODUCTION
sensibility that well disguises the fact that the savage reality of
society has escaped it.
This has occurred to English readers and observers, An
American feeling about Howards End, inspired by Lionel
Trilling's influential little book on Forster 1 1943), k that the
novel is a genial, beautifully proportioned work of art that
American literature should envy. In the introduction to the
1964 edition of his book, Trilling proudly noted that his book
had positively made Forster in America. He added
I have no doubt that I was benefited by the special energies that
attend a polemical purpose. To some readers it will perhaps seem
strange, even perverse, to have involved Mr. Forster in polemic, but I
did just that - I had a quarrel with American literature at the time it
was established, against what seemed to me its dullness and its pious
social simplicities I enlisted Mr, Footer's vivacity, complexity, and
irony. It was a quarrel that was to occupy me for some yean; from the
tide of the introductory chapter of this book I took the name of my
first volume of essays, The Liberal Imagination, The occasion of that
cultural contention no longer exists, at least not in its old form, but it
was an event of some importance in my intellectual life, and I would
not wish to interfere with what I said in the course of it.
The 'dullness and pious social simplicities' Trilling "quar-
relled' with in American literature of the time surely could not
have referred to such powerful talents as William Faulkner,
Theodore Dreiser, F, Scott Fitzgerald, Robert Frost, Wallace
Stevens, John Dos Passes, Edmund Wilson - and a host of
others. What bothered Trilling was not American literature
but his own now discarded American radicalism, especially
among his fellow members of the New York intelligentsia
who had been disabused by Stalinism, and were slowly but
unmistakably making their way to the intellectual l neo-
conservatism* that has become a striking mode among New
York children of East European immigrants, born in the first
years of the twentieth century, who since the 1940$ have
become a major force in American intellectual life.
Forster himself, not the most bravura and most self-
confident talent in the world, was so encouraged by Trilling's
book that he beamed on all Americans he met, saying 'Your
Mr. Trilling has made rne famous!* There was little reason for
xxi
HOWARDS END
him to appreciate the situation outre mer. To Trilling and many
other Americans weary of the corruption of the liberal imagi-
nation by the radical tradition - the unspoken premise behind
Trilling's argument - Forster's England in Howards End resem-
bled a moral paradise. Or a prig's?
Bernard Shaw liked to say 'it's the common language that
divides us } . No, it's just the American difference. There was
nothing in common between the England that presides over
Howards End and the England that Forster's American
admirers liked to see as a relief from their own more openly
turbulent society. In a way the social problem in America is
more hopeless, for the differences founded on race, the lasting
wounds of slavery and unfashionable 'national origin' may be
harder to cross over than the differences between Schlegels
and Wilcoxes - who at the end of the book do get to live in the
same ancestral house. The only figures in America compar-
able to the first Mrs Wilcox in deep unconscious wisdom,
rooted to the earth, crazy about the earth long ago taken from
them by white predators, are 'native Americans'. And they
live not in the middle of the most respected society, like Mrs
Wilcox, but in segregated, horribly poor, isolated
'reservations 5 .
We in America have lots of Wilcoxes - they are the go-go
boys who become corporation executives, Wall Street finan-
ciers and the rest. Nor do they look down on the culture of the
Schlegel type, all museum curators and professors. They
subsidize museums, concert halls, grants for writers, dancers,
painters, performers of every stripe; culture adds to the
prestige of their cities. And if Leonard Bast is at all imaginable
and loca table in America it is because he emigrated here a
long time ago in order to get into a state university. Leonard is
in direct-mail marketing now, rapidly making his way to the
top because of his gentlemanly English accent - always a great
help in the American business world.
Alfred Kazin
xxii
SELECT BIBLIOGRAPHY
TRILLING, LIONEL, E. M. Forster, New Directions, 1943, A sympa-
thetic pioneering study by a major intellectual historian affirming
Forster's originality and importance as thinker and social critic.
Unusually, Trilling praises Howards End at the expense of A Passage to
India.
GRANSDEN, K. W., E. Af. Forster, Oliver and Boyd, 1962. Lucid, well-
balanced general introduction, praised by Forster himself.
CREWS, FREDERICK, E. M. Fonter: The Perils of Humanism^ Princeton
University Press and Oxford University Press, 1962. An acute study,
examining Forster as a lapsed Victorian, forced as a novelist to
question the verities to which he was loyal.
STONE, WILFRED, The Cave and the Momtain, Stanford University
Press and Oxford University Press, 1966. A lengthy and detailed
study.
GARDNER, PHILIP, ed., E. M, Forster: the Critical Heritage, Routledge,
1973. A substantial collection of contemporary' reviews,
CQLMER, JOHN, E. M. Forster: the Personal Voice, Routledge, 1975. As
the tide implies, this pays close attention to Forster 1 s "voice 1 in the
novels.
FURBANK, P. N., E. M. Forster: a Life, Seeker and Warburg, 2 vols.,
1977-8. Contains much information from Forster's letters and
diaries.
CAVALIERO, GLEN, A Reading of E. M. Forster, Macmillan, 1979. A
discriminating shorter study.
XXV
CHRONOLOGY
DATE AUTHOR'S LIFE
1879 Born, on i January.
1880 Forster's father, Edward, dies.
1883 He and his mother go to live at
'Rooksnest' in Stevenage.
1 887 His great-aunt Marianne
Thornton dies, leaving him
8,000.
1893 Goes to Tonbridge School as
day boy.
1895
1897 Goes to King's College,
Cambridge, to study classics
and history.
1899
1900 Writes light articles for King's
College magazine, Basileona.
Becomes friendly with Lytton
Strachey and E. J. Dent.
1901 Is elected to the 'Apostles'. Goes
to Italy, including Sicily, with
his mother for best part of a
year.
1 902 Writes first story, 'The Story of
a Panic' (published 1904).
Begins to hold Latin classes at
the Working Men's College.
1903 Goes with mother to Italy, and
alone to Greece.
1904 He and mother move to
Weybridge, their home for
twenty years.
1905 Goes to Germany as tutor in
household of 'Elizabeth' (von
Arnim), for five months.
Publishes Where Angels Fear to
Tread.
1906 Gets to know Syed Ross
Masood
1907 Publishes The Longest Journey.
1908 Publishes A Room With a View.
LITERARY CONTEXT
Hardy: Jude the Obscure.
Housman: A Shropshire Lad.
Conrad: Lord Jim,
Thomas Mann: The
Buddenbrooks.
Henry James: The Wings of
the Dove.
Gide: The Immoralist.
G. E. Moore: Principia Ethica.
Henry James: The Golden
Bowl.
E. Wharton: House of Mirth.
Arnold Bennett: The Old
Wives' Tale.
XXVI
HISTORICAL EVENTS
Oscar Wilde trial.
Outbreak of Boer War.
Death of Queen Victoria.
Russian first Revolution 'Red Sunday 1 in St Petersburg.
'Liberal landslide 1 ; formation of Asquith government.
Hans Richter conducts the first complete English Ring at Caveat Garden.
xxvii
HOWARDS END
DATE
1909
1910
191 1
1912
1913
1916
1917
1918
1920
1921
1922
1923
1924
1925
AUTHOR'S LIFE
Publishes Howards End. {Circa
1910, gets to know Virginia
Woolf.)
Publishes The Celestial Omnibus
(short stories) .
Goes to India for six months.
Visits Edward Carpenter. Writes
Maurice (unpublished
posthumously j.
Visits D. H. Lawrence and
Frieda Lawrence. Goes to
Alexandria as 'hospital
searcher*.
Becomes friendly with Cavafy.
Writes articles for local
Egyptian journals.
Returns from Egypt. Visits Max
Gate (home of Thomas Hardy).
Goes to India (March), as
private secretary of Maharaja of
Dewas.
Returns (in January) from
India via Egypt. Gets to know
J. R. Ackerley. Publishes
Alexandria: a History ami a Guide,
Publishes Pharos and Pharillon.
His Aunt Laura dies, leaving
him *West Hackhurst' in
Abinger, Surrey. Gets to know
T E, Lawrence. Publishes A
Passage to India. Moves with
mother to 'West Hackhurst*.
Takes flat in Brunswick Square,
in Bloomsbury, for weekday use.
LITERARY CONTEXT
Forrest Reid: The Bracknells.
D. H. Lawrence: The White
Peacock.
Thomas Mann: Death in
Venice.
Conrad: Chance.
D. H. Lawrence: Sons and
Lovers.
Joyce: The Dubliners.
Ford Madox Ford: The Good
Soldier.
Joyce: Portrait of the Artist.
T. S. Eliot: Prufrock and Other
Obseniations.
Lytton Strachey: Eminent
Victorians.
Siegfried Sassoon:
Counterattack and Other Poems.
Gide: Pastoral Symphony.
H. G. Wells: Outline of History.
Huxley: Crome Yellow.
Joyce: Ulysses.
Woolf: Jacob's Room.
Thomas Mann: The Magic
Mountain.
Fitzgerald: The Great Gatsbj.
Kafka: The Tried.
XXVlli
CHRONOLOGY
HISTORICAL EVENTS
Indian Councils Act.
First Post-Impressionist exhibition.
George V announces transfer of capital of India from Calcutta to Delhi.
Outbreak of first Balkan War.
Enstcin's theory of Relativity.
Outbreak of World War I.
Second Russian Revolution. Petrograd riots.
World War I ends. Russian Civil War. Nicholas II assassinated.
Treaty of Versailles.
Gandhi initiates non-cooperation movement,
Chanak incident nearly leads to war with Turkey.
First Labour government.
XXIX
HOWARDS END
DATE
1926
1928
'93 1
I93 2
'933
^934
1938
'939
1940
'945
1946
1947
1953
J955
1957
AUTHOR'S LIFE
Gives Clark Lectures in
Cambridge, published as Aspects
of the Novel.
Gives radio talk, the first of
many. Publishes The Eternal
Moment (short stories).
Visits South Africa for four
months.
Visits Romania.
Becomes friendly with
Christopher Isherwood.
Becomes first President of the
National Council for Civil
Liberties. Publishes Goldsworthy
Lowes Dickinson (biography).
Addresses International
Congress of Writers, in Paris.
Publishes Abinger Harvest.
Begins regular talks on the
BBC's Indian Service.
Forster's mother dies. He goes
to India for conference of All-
Indian PEN.
Is appointed Honorary Fellow
of King's College, Cambridge,
and takes up residence in
Cambridge.
Pays first visit to USA.
Begins work (with Eric Crozier)
on libretto of Benjamin Britten's
Billy Budd (first performance
Publishes Two Cheers for
Democracy. Awarded C.H.
Publishes The Hill of Dem.
Publishes Marianne Thornton
(biography of his great-aunt).
Begins writing The Other Boat'
(story).
LITERARY CONTEXT
Gide: Si Le grain ne meurt.
Hemingway: The Sun also
Rises.
Lawrence: Lady Chatterley's
Lover.
Hemingway: A Farewell to Anns.
Faulkner: The Sound and the Fury.
Huxley: Brave jfew World.
Death of Kipling.
Sartre: La Naustc.
Auden and Isherwood:
Journey to a War.
Hemingway: For Whom the
Bell Tolls.
Death of Fitzgerald.
Death of H. G. Wells.
Greene: The Heart of the Matter.
Greene: The Third Man.
A. Miller: Death of a Salesman.
Death of Gide.
Lampedusa: The Leopard.
Pasternak: Dr hivago.
XXX
CHRONOLOGY
HISTORICAL EVENTS
General strike in England.
Women given vote in Britain.
Wall Street Crash.
Hitler becomes German Chancellor.
Germany begins to rearm. Mussolini invades Abyssinia.
Spanish Civil War begins,
Munich agreement \ September ,
Outbreak of World War II.
Churchill Prime Minister. Italy enters war 25 Germanys ally.
Death of Hitler. Atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki.
Partition of India.
Assassination of Gandhi.
MacmiUan's ministry in Britain. The EEC created.
XXX!
HOWARDS END
DATE
AUTHOR'S LIFE
LITERARY CONTEXT
1960
Is witness at Lady Ckatterley trial.
Deaths of Camus and
Pasternak.
196?
1969
Is awarded O.M.
1970
Dies on 7 January, at home of
his friends Robert and May-
Buckingham, in Coventry.
XXXll
CHRONOLOGY
HISTORICAL EVENTS
Homosexual Law Reform Act,
xxxm
HOWARDS
END
CHAPTER
1
One may as well begin with Helen's letters to her sister.
Howards End,
Dearest Meg,
It isn't going to be what we expected. It is old and
little, and altogether delightful red brick. We can
scarcely pack in as it is, and the dear knows what will
happen when Paul (younger son) arrives tomorrow. From
hall you go right or left into dining-room or drawing'
room. Hall itself is practically a room. Yom open another
door in it, and there are the stairs going tip in a sort of
tunnel to the first-floor. Three bed-brooms in a row there,
and three attics in a row above. That isn't all the house
really, but it's all that one notices nine windows as yoir
look up from the front garden.
Then there's a very big wych-elm to the left as you
look up leaning a little over the house, and standing on
the boundary between the garden and meadow, I auite
love that tree already. Also ordinary elms, oaks mo nas-
tier than ordinary oaks pear-trees, apple-trees, and a
vine* No silver birches, though. However, I must get on
to my host and hostess* I only wanted to show that it
isn't the least what me expected. Why did we settle that
their house would be all gables and wiggles, and their
garden all gamboge-coloured paths? I believe simply be-
cause we associate them with expensive hotels Mrs.
Wilcox trailing m beautiful dresses down long corridors,
Mr. Wilcox bullying porters* etc. We females are that
unjust.
I shall be back Saturday; will let you know train
later* They are as angry as I am that you did mat come
too; really Tibby is too tiresome, he starts a new mortal
disease every month. How could he have got hay fever in
London? and even if he could, it seems hard that you
should give up a visit to hear a schoolboy sneeze. Tell
him that Charles Wilcox (the son who is here) has hay
fever too, but he's brave, and gets quite cross when we
inquire after it. Men like the Wilcoxes would do Tibby a
power of good. Bui you won't agree, and I'd better change
the subject.
This long letter is because I'm writing before break-
fast. Oh, the beautiful vine leaves! The house is covered
with a vine. I looked out earlier, and Mrs. Wilcox was
already in the garden. She evidently loves it. No wonder
she sometimes looks tired. She was watching the large
red poppies come out. Then she walked off the lawn to
the meadow, whose corner to the right I can fust see.
Trail, trail, -went her long dress over the sopping grass,
and she came back with her hands full of the hay that
was cut yesterday I suppose for rabbits or something,
as she kept on smelling it. The air here is delicious. Later
on I heard the noise of croquet balls, and looked out
again, and it was Charles Wilcox practising; they are
keen on all games. Presently he started sneezing and had
to stop. Then I hear more clicketing, and it is Mr. Wilcox
practising, and then, "a-tissue, a-tissue": he has to stop
too. Then Evie comes out, and does some calisthenic ex-
ercises on a machine that is tacked on to a greengage-
tree they put everything to use and then she says
"a-tissue," and in she goes. And finally Mrs. Wilcox
reappears, trail, trail, still smelling hay and looking at
the flowers. I inflict all this on you because once you said
that life is sometimes life and sometimes only a drama,
and one must learn to distinguish t'other from which,
and up to now I have always put that down as "Meg's
clever nonsense. " But this morning, it really does seem
not life but a play, and it did amuse me enormously to
-watch the W's. Now Mrs. Wilcox has come in.
I am going to -wear [omission]. Last night Mrs.
Wilcox -wore an [omission], and Evie [omission]. So it
isn't exactly a go-as-you-please place, and if you shut
your eyes it still seems the wiggly hotel that we expected.
Not if you open them. The dog-roses are too sweet. There
is & great hedge of them, over the lawn magnificently
tall, so that they fall down in garlands, and nice and thin
at the bottom, so that you can see ducks through it and
a cow. These belong to the farm, which is the only house
near us. There goes the breakfast gong, Much love. Mod-
ified, love to Ttbby. Love to Aunt Juley; how good of her
to come and keep you company, but what a bore. Burn
this. Will write again Thursday,
Helen
Howards End,
Friday.
Dearest Meg,
I am having a glorious time. I like them all. Mrs.
Wilcox, if quieter than in Germany, is sweeter than ever,
and I never saw anything like her steady unselfishness,,
and the best of it is that the others do not take advantage
of her. They are the very happiest, jolliest family that
you can imagine. I do really feel that we are making
friends. The fun of it is that they think me a noodle, and
say so at least, Mr. Wilcox does and when that hap-
pens, and one doesn't mind, it's a pretty sure test, isn't
it? He says the most horrid things about women's suf-
frage so nicely, and when I said I believed in equality he
just folded his arms and gave me such a setting down as
I've never had. Meg, shall we ever learn to talk less? I
never felt so ashamed of myself in my life* I couldn't
point to a time: when men had been equal, nor even to a
time when the wish to be equal had made them happier
in other ways. I couldn't say a word* 1 had fust picked
up the notion that equality is good from some baok
probably from poetry, or you* Anyhow, it's been knocked
into pieces, and, like all people who are really strong,
Mr. Wilcox did it without hurting mf. On the other hand,
I Imtgk at them for catching hay fever. We live like fight-
ing-cocks, and Charles takes us out every day in th mo-
tor a tomb with trees in it, a hermit's house, a
wonderful rood tftat wms made by the Kings of Mercia
teams* cricket match bridge and at night we squeeze
up in this lovely house. The whole clan's here now it's
like a rabbit warren. Evie is a dear. They want me to
stop over Sunday / suppose it won't matter if I do. Mar-
vellous -weather and the view's marvellous views west-
ward to the high ground. Thank you for your letter. Bum
this.
Your affectionate
Helen
Howards End,
Sunday.
Dearest, dearest Meg, I do not know what you will say:
Paul and I are in love the younger son who only came
here Wednesday.
CHAPTER
2
Margaret glanced at her sister's note and pushed it over
the breakfast-table to her aunt. There was a moment's
hush, and then the flood-gates opened.
"I can tell you nothing, Aunt Juley. I know no more
than you do. We met we only met the father and
mother abroad last spring. I know so little that I didn't
even know their son's name. It's all so" She waved
her hand and laughed a little.
"In that case it is far too sudden."
"Who knows, Aunt Juley, who knows?"
"But, Margaret dear, I mean we mustn't be unprac-
tical now that we've come to facts. It is too sudden,
surely."
"Who knows!"
"But Margaret dear"
"I'll go for her other letters/' said Margaret. "No, I
won't, I'D finish my breakfast. In fact, I haven't them.
We met the Wilcoxes on an awful expedition that we
made from Heidelberg to Speyer. Helen and I had got
it into our heads that there was a grand old cathedral at
Speyer the Archbishop of Speyer was one of the seven
electors you know 'Speyer, Maintz, and Kdln/ Those
three sees once commanded the Rhine Valley and got it
the name of Priest Street/'
"I still feel quite uneasy about this business, Marga-
ret/'
"The train crossed by a bridge of boats, and at first
sight it looked quite fine. But oh, in five minutes we had
seen the whole thing. The cathedral had been ruined,
absolutely ruined, by restoration; not an inch left of the
original structure. We wasted a whole day, and came
across the Wilcoxes as we were eating our sandwiches
in the public gardens. They too, poor things, had been
taken in they were actually stopping at Speyer and
they rather liked Helen insisting that they must fly with
us to Heidelberg. As a matter of fact, they did come on
next day. We all took some drives together. They knew
us well enough to ask Helen to come and see them at
least, I was asked too, but Tibby's illness prevented me,
so last Monday she went alone. That's all. You know as
much as 1 do now. It's a young man out the unknown.
She was to have come back Saturday, but put off till
Monday, perhaps on account of I don't know/'
She broke off, and listened to the sounds erf a London
morning. Their house was in Wkkham Place, and fairly
quiet, far a lofty promontory erf buildings separated it
from the main thoroughfare. One had the sense of a
backwater, or rather of an estuary, whose waters flowed
in from the invisible sea, and ebbed into a profound si-
lence while the waves without were still beating. Though
the promontory consisted erf flats expensive, with cav-
ernous entrance halls, full erf concierges and palms it
fulfilled its purpose, and gained for the older houses
opposite a certain measure of peace. These, too, would
be swept away in time, and another promontory would
rise upon their site, as humanity piled itself higher and
higher on the precious soil of London.
Mrs. Munt had her own method of interpreting her
nieces. She decided that Margaret was a little hysterical,
and was trying to gain time by a torrent of talk. Feeling
very diplomatic, she lamented the fate of Speyer, and
declared that never, never should she be so misguided
as to visit it, and added of her own accord that the prin-
ciples of restoration were ill understood in Germany.
"The Germans," she said, "are too thorough, and this
is all very well sometimes, but at other times it does not
do."
"Exactly," said Margaret; "Germans are too thor-
ough." And her eyes began to shine.
"Of course I regard you Schlegels as English/' said
Mrs. Munt hastily "English to the backbone."
Margaret leaned forward and stroked her hand.
"And that reminds me Helen's letter"
"Oh, yes, Aunt Juley, I am thinking all right about
Helen's letter. I know 1 must go down and see her. I
am thinking about her all right. I am meaning to go
down,"
"But go with some plan," said Mrs. Munt, admitting
into her kindly voice a note of exasperation, "Margaret,
if I may interfere, don't be taken by surprise. What do
you think of the Wilcoxes? Are they our sort? Are they
likely people? Could they appreciate Helen, who is to
my mind a very special sort of person? Do they care
about Literature and Art? That is most important when
you come to think of it. Literature and Art. Most impor-
tant. How old would the son be? She says 'younger son.'
Would he be in a position to marry? Is he likely to make
Helen happy? Did you gather"
"I gathered nothing."
They began to talk at once.
"Then in that case"
"In that case I can make no plans, don't you see."
"On the contrary"
"I hate plans. I hate lines of action. Helen isn't a
baby."
"Then in that case, my dear, why go down?"
Margaret was silent. If her aunt could not see why
she must go down, she was not going to tell her. She
was not going to say: "I love rny dear sister; I must be
near her at this crisis of her life." The affections are more
reticent than the passions, and their expression more
subtle. If she herself should ever fall in love with a man,
she, like Helen, would proclaim it from the house-tops,
but as she only loved a sister she used the voiceless lan-
guage of sympathy.
"I consider you odd girls/' continued Mrs. Munt,
"and very wonderful girls, and in many ways far older
than your years. But you won't be offended? frankly
I feel you are not up to this business. It requires an older
person. Dear, I have nothing to call me back to Swan-
age." She spread out her plump arms. "I am all at your
disposal. Let me go down to this house whose name I
forget instead of you,"
"Aunt Juley" she jumped up and kissed her "I
must, must go to Howards End myself. You don't ex-
actly understand, though I can never thank you prop-
erly for offering."
"I do understand/' retorted Mrs. Munt, with im-
mense confidence. "I go down in no spirit of interfer-
ence, but to make inquiries. Inquiries are necessary.
Now, I am going to be rude. You would say the wrong
thing; to a certainty you would. In your anxiety for
Helen's happiness you would offered the whole of these
Wikoxes by asking one erf your impetuous questions
not that one minds offending them/'
"I shall ask no questions. I have it in Helen's writing
that she and a man are in love. There is no question to
ask as long as she keeps to that. All the rest isn't worth
a straw. A long engagement if you like, but inquiries,
questions, plans, lines of action no, Aunt Juley, no."
Away she hurried, not beautiful, not supremely bril-
liant, but filled with something that took the place of
both qualities something best described as a profound
vivacity, a continual and sincere response to all that she
encountered in her path through life.
"If Helen had written the same to me about a shop-
assistant or a penniless clerk "
"Dear Margaret, do come into the library and shut
the door. Your good maids are dusting the banisters."
"or if she had wanted to marry the man who calls
for Carter Paterson, I should have said the same." Then,
with one of those turns that convinced her aunt that she
was not mad really and convinced observers of another
type that she was not a barren theorist, she added:
"Though in the case of Carter Paterson, I should want
it to be a very long engagement indeed, I must say."
"I should think so," said Mrs. Munt; "and, indeed,
I can scarcely follow you. Now, just imagine if you said
anything of that sort to the Wilcoxes. I understand it,
but most good people would think you mad. Imagine
how disconcerting for Helen! What is wanted is a person
who will go slowly, slowly in this business, and see how
things are and where they are likely to lead to."
Margaret was down on this.
"But you implied just now that the engagement must
be broken off."
"I think probably it must; but slowly."
"Can you break an engagement off slowly?" Her eyes
lit up. "What's an engagement made of, do you sup-
pose? I think it's made of some hard stuff, that may
snap, but can't break. It is different to the other ties of
life. They s.tretch or bend. They admit of degree. They're
different."
"Exactly so. But won't you let me just run down to
10
Howards House, and save you ail the discomfort? I will
really not interfere, but I do so thoroughly understand
the kind of thing you Schlegels want that one quiet look
round will be enough for me."
Margaret again thanked her, again kissed her, and
then ran upstairs to see her brother.
He was not so well.
The hay fever had worried him a good deal all night.
His head ached, his eyes were wet, his mucous mem-
brane, he informed her, was in a most unsatisfactory
condition. The only thing that made life worth living
was the thought of Walter Savage Landor, from whose
Imaginary Conversations she had promised to read at fre-
quent intervals during the day.
It was rather difficult. Something must be done about
Helen. She must be assured that it is not a criminal of-
fence to love at first sight. A telegram to this effect would
be cold and cryptic, a personal visit seemed each mo-
ment more impossible. Now the doctor arrived, and said
that Tibby was quite bad. Might it really be best to ac-
cept Aunt Juley's kind offer, and to send her down to
Howards End with a note?
Certainly Margaret was impulsive. She did swing
rapidly from one decision to another. Running down-
stairs into the library, she cried: ''Yes, I have changed
my mind; I do wish that you would go."
There was a train from King's Cross at eleven. At half
past ten Tibby, with rare self-effacement, feE asleep, and
Margaret was able to drive her aunt to the station.
"You will remember, Aunt Juley, not to be drawn
into discussing the engagement. Give my letter to Helen,
and say whatever you feel yourself, but do keep dear of
the relatives. We have scarcely got their names straight
yet, and besides, that sort of thing is so uncivilized and
wrong."
"So uiKiviHzed?" queried Mrs. Munt, fearing that she
was losing the point of some brilliant remark.
"Oh, I used an affected word. I only meant would
you please only talk the thing over with Helen/'
"Only with Helen."
"Because" But it was no moment to expound the
personal nature of love. Even Margaret shrank from it,
and contented herself with stroking her good aunt's
hand, and with meditating, half sensibly and half poet-
ically, on the journey that was about to begin from
King's Cross.
Like many others who have lived long in a great cap-
ital, she had strong feelings about the various railway
termini. They are our gates to the glorious and the un-
known. Through them we pass out into adventure and
sunshine, to them, alas! we return. In Paddington all
Cornwall is latent and the remoter west; down the in-
clines of Liverpool Street lie fenlands and the illimitable
Broads; Scotland is through the pylons of Huston; Wes-
sex behind the poised chaos of Waterloo. Italians realize
this, as is natural; those of them who are so unfortunate
as to serve as waiters in Berlin call the Anhalt Bahnhof
the Stazione d'ltalia, because by it they must return to
their homes. And he is a chilly Londoner who does not
endow his stations with some personality, and extend
to them, however shyly, the emotions of fear and love.
To Margaret I hope that it will not set the reader
against her the station of King's Cross had always sug-
gested Infinity. Its very situationwithdrawn a little be-
hind the facile splendours of St. Pancras implied a
comment on the materialism of life. Those two great
arches, colourless, indifferent, shouldering between
them an unlovely dock, were fit portals for some eternal
adventure, whose issue might be prosperous, but would
certainly not be expressed in the ordinary language of
prosperity. If you think this ridiculous, remember that
it is not Margaret who is telling you about it; and let me
hasten to add that they were in plenty of time for the
train; that Mrs. Munt, though she took a second-class
ticket, was put by the guard into a first (only two sec-
onds on the train, one smoking and the other babies-
one cannot be expected to travel with babies); and that
Margaret, on her return to Wkkham Place, was con-
fronted with the following telegram:
All aoer. Wts/i / had never written. Tdl no one.
-Helen
But Aunt Juley was gone gone irrevocably, and no
power on earth could stop her.
CHAPTER
3
Most complacently did Mrs. Munt rehearse her mission.
Her nieces were independent young women, and it was
not often that she was able to help them. Emily's daugh-
ters had never been quite like other girls. They had been
left motherless when Tibby was born, when Helen was
five and Margaret herself but thirteen. It was before the
passing of the Deceased Wife's Sister Bill, so Mrs. Munt
could without impropriety offer to go and keep house
at Wkkham Place. But her brother-in-law, who was pe-
culiar and a German, had referred the question to Mar-
garet, who with the crudity of youth had answered: No,
they could manage much better alone. Five years later
Mr. Schlege! had died too, and Mrs. Munt had repeated
her offer. Margaret, crude no longer, had been grateful
and extremely nice, but the substance of her answer had
been the same. "I must not interfere a third time/'
thought Mrs. Munt. However, of course she did. She
learnt, to her horror, that Mai'garet, now of age, was
taking her money out of the old safe investments and
putting it into Foreign Things, which always smash. Si-
lence would have been criminal. Her own fortune was
invested in Home Rails, and most ardently did she beg
her niece to imitate her, "Then we should be together,
dear." Margaret, out of politeness, invested a few hun-
dreds in the Nottingham and Derby Railway, and
though the Foreign Things did admirably and the Not-
tingham and Derby declined with the steady dignity of
which only Home Rails are capable, Mrs. Munt never
ceased to rejoice, and to say: "I did manage that, at all
events. When the smash comes poor Margaret will have
a nest-egg to fall back upon." This year Helen came of
age, and exactly the same thing happened in Helen's
case; she also would shift her money out of Consols,
but she, too, almost without being pressed, consecrated
a fraction of it to the Nottingham and Derby Railway.
So far so good, but in social matters their aunt had ac-
complished nothing. Sooner or later the girls would en-
ter on the process known as throwing themselves away,
and if they had delayed hitherto, it was only that they
might throw themselves more vehemently in the future.
They saw too many people at Wickham Place un-
shaven musicians, an actress even, German cousins (one
knows what foreigners are), acquaintances picked up at
Continental hotels (one knows what they are too). It was
interesting, and down at Swanage no one appreciated
culture more than Mrs. Munt; but it was dangerous, and
disaster was bound to come. How right she was, and
how lucky to be on the spot when the disaster came!
The train sped northward, under innumerable tun-
nels. It was only an hour's journey, but Mrs. Munt had
to raise and lower the window again and again. She
passed through the South Welwyn Tunnel, saw light for
a moment, and entered the North Welwyn Tunnel, of
tragic fame. She traversed the immense viaduct, whose
arches span untroubled meadows and the dreamy flow
of Tewin Water. She skirted the parks of politicians. At
times the Great North Road accompanied her, more
suggestive of infinity than any railway awakening, after
14
a nap of a hundred years, to such life as is conferred by
the stench of motor-cars, and to such culture as is im-
plied by the advertisements of antibflious pills. To his-
tory, to tragedy, to the past, to the future, Mrs. Munt
remained equally indifferent; hers but to concentrate on
the end of her journey, and to rescue poor Helen from
this dreadful mess.
The station for Howards End was at Hilton, one of
the large villages that are strung so frequently along the
North Road, and that owe their size to the traffic of
coaching and pre-coaching days. Being near London, it
had not shared in the rural decay, and its long High
Street had budded out right and left into residential es-
tates. For about a mile a series of tiled and slated houses
passed before Mrs. Munt's inattentive eyes, a series bro-
ken at one point by six Danish tumuli that stood shoul-
der to shoulder along the highroad, tombs of soldiers.
Beyond these tumuli habitations thickened, and the train
came to a standstill in a tangle that was almost a town.
The station, like the scenery, like Helen's letters,
struck an indeterminate note. Into whkh country will it
lead, England or Suburbia? It was new, it had island
platforms and a subway, and the superficial comfort ex-
acted by business men. But it held hints of local life,
personal intercourse, as even Mrs. Munt was to dis-
cover.
"I want a house," she confided to the ticket boy. "Its
name is Howards Lodge. Do you know where it is?"
"Mr. Wilcox!" the boy called.
A young man in front of them turned round.
"She's wanting Howards End."
There was nothing for it but to go forward, though
Mrs. Munt was too much agitated even to stare at the
stranger. But remembering that there were two broth-
ers, she had the sense to say to him: "Excuse me asking,
but are you the younger Mr. Wilcox or the elder?"
"The younger. Can I do anything for you?"
15
"Oh, well " She controlled herself with difficulty.
"Really. Are you? I" She moved away from the ticket
boy and lowered her voice. "I am Miss Schlegel's aunt.
I ought to introduce myself, oughtn't I? My name is Mrs.
Munt."
She was conscious that he raised his cap and said
quite coolly: "Oh, rather; Miss Schlegel is stopping with
us. Did you want to see her?"
"Possibly-"
"I'll call you a cab. No; wait a mo " He thought.
"Our motor's here. I'll run you up in it."
"That is very kind"
"Not at all, if you'll just wait till they bring out a
parcel from the office. This way."
"My niece is not with you by any chance?"
"No; I came over with my father. He has gone on
north in your train. You'll see Miss Schlegel at lunch.
You're coming up to lunch, I hope?"
"I should like to come up, " said Mrs. Munt, not com-
mitting herself to nourishment until she had studied He-
len's lover a little more. He seemed a gentleman, but
had so rattled her round that her powers of observation
were numbed. She glanced at him stealthily. To a fem-
inine eye there was nothing amiss in the sharp depres-
sions at the corners of his mouth, nor in the rather
box-like construction of his forehead. He was dark,
dean-shaven, and seemed accustomed to command.
"In front or behind? Which do you prefer? It may be
windy in front."
"In front if I may; then we can talk."
"But excuse me one moment I can't think what
they're doing with that parcel." He strode into the
booking-office, and called with a new voice: "Hi! hi,
you there! Are you going to keep me waiting all day?
Parcel for Wilcox, Howards End. Just look sharp!"
Emerging, he said in quieter tones: "This station's
abominably organized; if I had my way, the whole lot
of 'em should get the sack. May 1 help you in?"
"This is very good of you/' said Mrs. Munt, as she
settled herself into a luxurious cavern of red leather, and
suffered her person to be padded with rugs and shawls.
She was more civil than she had intended, but really
this young man was very kind. Moreover, she was a
little afraid of him: his self-possession was extraordi-
nary. "Very good indeed/' she repeated, adding: "It is
just what I should have wished,"
"Very good of you to say so," he replied, with a slight
look of surprise, which, like most slight looks, escaped
Mrs. Munt's attention. "I was just tooling my father over
to catch the down train/'
"You see, we heard from Helen this morning."
Young Wilcox was pouring in petrol, starting his en-
gine, and performing other actions with which this story
has no concern. The great car began to rock, and the
form of Mrs. Munt, trying to explain things, sprang
agreeably up and down among the red cushions. "The
mater will be very glad to see you/' he mumbled. "Hi!
I say, Parcel for Howards End. Bring it out. Hi!"
A bearded porter emerged with the parcel in one hand
and an entry book in the other. With the gathering whir
of the motor these ejaculations mingled: "Sign, must I?
Why the should I sign after all this bother? Not even
got a pencil on you? Remember, next time I report you
to the station-master. My time's of value, though yours
mayn't be. Here" here being a tip.
"Extremely sorry, Mrs. Munt."
"Not at an, Mr. Wikox."
"And do you obfect to going through the village? It
is rather a longer spin, but I have one or two commis-
sions/'
"I should love going through the village. Naturally I
ain very anxious to talk things over with you."
As she said this she felt ashamed, for she was dis-
obeying Margaret's instructions. Only disobeying them
in the letter, surely. Margaret had only warned her
against discussing the incident with outsiders. Surely it
was not "uncivilized" or "wrong" to discuss it with the
young man himself, since chance had thrown them to-
gether.
A reticent fellow, he made no reply. Mounting by her
side, he put on gloves and spectacles, and off they
drove, the bearded porter life is a mysterious busi-
nesslooking after them with admiration.
The wind was in their faces down the station road,
blowing the dust into Mrs. Munt's eyes. But as soon as
they turned into the Great North Road she opened fire.
"You can well imagine," she said, "that the news was
a great shock to us."
"What news?"
"Mr. Wilcox," she said frankly. "Margaret has told
me everything everything. I have seen Helen's letter."
He could not look her in the face, as his eyes were
fixed on his work; he was travelling as quickly as he
dared down the High Street. But he inclined his head in
her direction, and said: "I beg your pardon; I didn't
catch."
"About Helen. Helen, of course. Helen is a very ex-
ceptional person I am sure you will let me say this,
feeling towards her as you do indeed, all the Schlegels
are exceptional. I come in no spirit of interference, but
it was a great shock."
They drew up opposite a draper's. Without replying,
he turned round in his seat and contemplated the cloud
of dust that they had raised in their passage through the
village. It was settling again, but not all into the road
from which he had taken it. Some of it had percolated
through the open windows, some had whitened the
roses and gooseberries of the wayside gardens, while a
certain proportion had entered the lungs of the villagers.
18
"1 wonder when they'll learn wisdom and tar the
roads/' was his comment. Then a man ran out of the
draper's with a roll of oilcloth, and off they went again.
"Margaret could not come herself, on account of poor
Tibby, so I am here to represent her and to have a good
talk."
"I'm sorry to be so dense/' said the young man,
again drawing up outside a shop. "But I still haven't
quite understood."
"Helen, Mr. Wilcox my niece and you."
He pushed up his goggles and gazed at her, abso-
lutely bewildered. Horror smote her to the heart, for
even she began to suspect that they were at cross-
purposes, and that she had commenced her mission by
some hideous blunder.
"Miss Schlegel and myself?" he asked, compressing
his lips.
"I trust there has been no misunderstanding/' qua-
vered Mrs. Munt. "Her letter certainly read that way."
"What way?"
"That you and she" She paused, then drooped her
eyelids.
"I think I catch your meaning," he said stickily.
"What an extraordinary mistake!"
"Then you didn't the least" she stammered, get-
ting blood-red in the face, and wishing she had never
been born,
"Scarcely, as I am already engaged to another lady."
There was a moment's silence, and then he caught his
breath and exploded with: "Oh, good God! Don't teU
me it's some silliness erf Paul's."
"But you axe Paul."
"I'm not."
"Then why did you say so at the station?"
"I said nothing of the sort."
"I beg your pardon, you did."
"I beg your paandon, I did m>t. My name is Charies."
19
7 'Younger" may mean son as opposed to father, or
second brother as opposed to first. There is much to be
said for either view, and later on they said it. But they
had other questions before them now.
"Do you mean to tell me that Paul"
But she did not like his voice. He sounded as if he
was talking to a porter, and, certain that he had de-
ceived her at the station, she too grew angry.
"Do you mean to tell me that Paul and your
niece"
Mrs. Munt such is human nature determined that
she would champion the lovers. She was not going to
be bullied by a severe young man. "Yes, they care for
one another very much indeed," she said. "I dare say
they will tell you about it by and by. We heard this
morning."
And Charles clenched his fist and cried: "The idiot,
the idiot, the little fool!"
Mrs. Munt tried to divest herself of her rugs. "If that
is your attitude, Mr. Wilcox, I prefer to walk."
"I beg you will do no such thing. I'll take you up this
moment to the house. Let me tell you the thing's im-
possible, and must be stopped."
Mrs. Munt did not often lose her temper, and when
she did, it was only to protect those whom she loved.
On this occasion she blazed out. "I quite agree, sir. The
thing is impossible, and I will come up and stop it. My
niece is a very exceptional person, and I am not inclined
to sit still while she throws herself away on those who
will not appreciate her."
Charles worked his jaws.
"Considering she has only known your brother since
Wednesday, and only met your father and mother at a
stray hotel"
"Could you possibly lower your voice? The shopman
will overhear."
"Esprit de classe" if one may coin the phrase was
20
strong in Mrs. Munt. She sat quivering while a member
of the lower orders deposited a metal funnel, a sauce-
pan, and a garden squirt beside the roll of oilcloth,
''Right behind?"
"Yes, sir." And the lower orders vanished in a cloud
of dust.
"I warn you: Paul hasn't a penny; it's useless/'
"No need to warn us, Mr, Wikox, I assure you. The
warning is all the other way. My niece has been very
foolish, and I shall give her a good scolding and take
her back to London with me."
"He has to make his way out in Nigeria. He couldn't
think of marrying for years, and when he does it must
be a woman who can stand the climate, and is in other
ways Why hasn't he told us? Of course he's ashamed.
He knows he's been a fool. And so he has a damned
fool."
She grew furious.
"Whereas Miss Schlegel has lost no time in publish-
ing the news,"
"If I were a man, Mr. Wifcox, for that last remark I'd
box your ears. You're not fit to dean my niece's boots,
to sit in the same room with her, and you dare you
actually dare I decline to argue with such a person."
"All I know is, she's spread the thing and he hasn't,
and my father's away and I"
"And all that I know is"
"Might 1 finish my sentence, please?"
"No."
Charles clenched his teeth and sent the motor swerv-
ing aH over the lane.
She screamed.
So they played the game of Capping Famlies, a round
of which is always played when k>ve would unite two
members of our race. But they piayed it with unusual
vigour, stating in so many words that Schlegels were
better than Wifcoxies, Wfkoxes better than Schlegds.
21
They flung decency aside. The man was young, the
woman deeply stirred; in both a vein of coarseness was
latent. Their quarrel was no more surprising than are
most quarrels inevitable at the time, incredible after-
wards. But it was more than usually futile. A few min-
utes, and they were enlightened. The motor drew up at
Howards End, and Helen, looking very pale, ran out to
meet her aunt.
"Aunt Juley, I have just had a telegram from Marga-
ret; I I mean to stop your coming. It isn't it's over."
The climax was too much for Mrs. Munt. She burst
into tears.
"Aunt Juley, dear, don't. Don't let them know I've
been so silly. It wasn't anything. Do bear up for my
sake."
"Paul," cried Charles Wilcox, pulling his gloves off.
"Don't let them know. They are never to know."
"Oh, my darling Helen"
"Paul! Paul!"
A very young man came out of the house.
"Paul, is there any truth in this?"
"I didn't-I don't-"
"Yes or no, man; plain question, plain answer. Did
or didn't Miss Schlegel "
"Charles dear," said a voice from the garden.
"Charles, dear Charles, one doesn't ask plain questions.
There aren't such things."
They were all silent. It was Mrs. Wilcox.
She approached just as Helen's letter had described
her, trailing noiselessly over the lawn, and there was
actually a wisp of hay in her hands. She seemed to be-
long not to the young people and their motor, but to the
house, and to the tree that overshadowed it. One knew
that she worshipped the past, and that the instinctive
wisdom the past can alone bestow had descended upon
her that wisdom to which we give the clumsy name of
aristocracy. High-born she might not be. But assuredly
22
she cared about her ancestors, and let them help her.
When she saw Charles angry, Paul frightened, and Mrs.
Munt in tears, she heard her ancestors say: "Separate
those human beings who will hurt each other most. The
rest can wait." So she did not ask questions. Still less
did she pretend that nothing had happened, as a com-
petent society hostess would have done. She said: "Miss
Schlegel, would you take your aunt up to your room or
to my room, whichever you think best. Paul, do find
Evie, and tell her lunch for six, but I'm not sure whether
we shall ail be downstairs for it." And when they had
obeyed her, she turned to her elder son, who still stood
in the throbbing stinking car, and smiled at him with
tenderness, and without a word, turned away from him
towards her flowers.
"Mother/ 7 he called, "are you aware that Paul has
been playing the fool again?"
"It's all right, dear. They have broken off the engage-
ment."
"Engagement!"
"They do not love any longer, if you prefer it put that
way," said Mrs. Wilcox, stooping down to smell a rose.
CHAPTER
4
Helen and her aunt returned to Wkkham Place in a state
of collapse, and for a little time Margaret had three in-
valids on her hands, Mrs. Munt soon recovered. She
possessed to a remarkable degree the power of distort-
ing the past, and before many days were over she had
forgotten the part played by her own imprudence in the
catastrophe. Even at the crisis she had cried: "Thank
goodness, poor Margaret is saved this!" which during
the journey to London evolved into: "It had to be gone
23
through by someone/' which in its turn ripened into the
permanent form of: ''The one time I really did help Em-
ily's girls was over the Wilcox business/' But Helen was
a more serious patient. New ideas had burst upon her
like a thunder clap, and by them and by her reverbera-
tions she had been stunned.
The truth was that she had fallen in love, not with an
individual, but with a family.
Before Paul arrived she had, as it were, been tuned
up into his key. The energy of the Wilcoxes had fasci-
nated her, had created new images of beauty in her re-
sponsive mind. To be all day with them in the open air,
to sleep at night under their roof, had seemed the su-
preme joy of life, and had led to that abandonment of
personality that is a possible prelude to love. She had
liked giving in to Mr. Wilcox, or Evie, or Charles; she
had liked being told that her notions of life were shel-
tered or academic; that Equality was nonsense, Votes for
Women nonsense, Socialism nonsense, Art and Litera-
ture, except when conducive to strengthening the char-
acter, nonsense. One by one the Schlegel fetiches had
been overthrown, and, though professing to defend
them, she had rejoiced. When Mr. Wilcox said that one
sound man of business did more good to the world than
a dozen of your social reformers, she had swallowed the
curious assertion without a gasp, and had leant back
luxuriously among the cushions of his motor-car. When
Charles said: "Why be so polite to servants? They don't
understand it," she had not given the Schlegel retort of:
"If they don't understand it, I do/' No; she had vowed
to be less polite to servants in the future. "I am swathed
in cant," she thought, "and it is good for me to be
stripped of it." And all that she thought or did or
breathed was a quiet preparation for Paul. Paul was in-
evitable. Charles was taken up with another girl, Mr.
Wilcox was so old, Evie so young, Mrs. Wilcox so dif-
ferent. Round the absent brother she began to throw the
24
halo of Romance, to irradiate him with all the splendour
of those happy days, to feel that in him she should draw
nearest to the robust ideal. He and she were about the
same age, Evie said. Most people thought Paul hand-
somer than his brother. He was certainly a better shot,
though not so good at golf And when Paul appeared,
flushed with the triumph of getting through an exami-
nation, and ready to flirt with any pretty girl, Helen met
him halfway, or more than halfway, and turned towards
him on the Sunday evening.
He had been talking of his approaching exile in Ni-
geria, and he should have continued to talk of it, and
allowed their guest to recover. But the heave of her
bosom flattered him. Passion was possible, and he be-
came passionate. Deep down in him something whis-
pered: "This girl would let you kiss her; you might not
have such a chance again."
That was "how it happened/' or, rather, how Helen
described it to her sister, using words even more un-
sympathetic than my own. But the poetry of that kiss,
the wonder of it, the magk that there was in life for
hours after it who can describe that? It is so easy for
an Englishman to sneer at these chance collisions of hu-
man beings, To the insular cynk and the insular moralist
they offer an equal opportunity. It is so easy to talk of
"passing emotion/' and how to forget how vivid the
emotion was ere it passed. Our impulse to sneer, to for-
get, is at root a good one. We recognize that emotion is
not enough, and that men and women are personalities
capable of sustained relations, not mere opportunities
for an electrical discharge. Yet we rate the impulse too
highly. We do not admit that by collisions erf this trivial
sort the doors erf heaven may be shaken open. To Helen,
at all events, her life was to bring nothing more intense
than the embrace of this boy who played no part in it.
He had drawn her out erf the house, where there was
danger erf surprise and light; he had led her by a path
25
he knew, until they stood under the column of the vast
wych-elm. A man in the darkness, he had whispered:
"I love you" when she was desiring love. In time his
slender personality faded, the scene that he had evoked
endured. In all the variable years that followed she never
saw the like of it again.
"I understand/' said Margaret "at least, I under-
stand as much as ever is understood of these things. Tell
me now what happened on the Monday morning/'
"It was over at once."
"How, Helen?"
"I was still happy while I dressed, but as I came
downstairs I got nervous, and when I went into the
dining-room I knew it was no good. There was Evie I
can't explain managing the tea-urn, and Mr. Wilcox
reading the Times."
"Was Paul there?"
"Yes; and Charles was talking to him about Stocks
and Shares, and he looked frightened."
By slight indications the sisters could convey much to
each other. Margaret saw horror latent in the scene, and
Helen's next remark did not surprise her.
"Somehow, when that kind of man looks frightened
it is too awful. It is all right for us to be frightened, or
for men of another sort Father, for instance; but for
men like that! When I saw all the others so placid, and
Paul mad with terror in case I said the wrong thing, I
felt for a moment that the whole Wilcox family was a
fraud, just a wall of newspapers and motor-cars and golf-
clubs, and that if it fell I should find nothing behind it
but panic and emptiness."
"I don't think that. The Wilcoxes struck me as being
genuine people, particularly the wife."
"No, I don't really think that. But Paul was so broad-
shouldered; all kinds of extraordinary things made it
worse, and I knew that it would never do never. I said
to him after breakfast, when the others were practising
26
strokes: 'We rather lost our heads/ and he looked better
at once, though frightfully ashamed. He began a speech
about having no money to marry on, but it hurt him to
make it, and I stopped him. Then he said: 'I must beg
your pardon over this, Miss Schlegel; I can't think what
came over me last night/ And I said: 'Nor what over
me; never mind/ And then we parted at least, until I
remembered that I had written straight off to teU you
the night before, and that frightened him again. I asked
him to send a telegram for me, for he knew you would
be coming or something; and he tried to get hold of the
motor, but Charles and Mr. Wikox wanted it to go to
the station; and Charles offered to send the telegram for
me, and then I had to say that the telegram was of no
consequence, for Paul said Charles might read it, and
though I wrote it out several times, he always said peo-
ple would suspect something. He took it himself at last,
pretending that he must walk down to get cartridges,
and, what with one thing and the other, it was not
handed in at the Post Office until too late. It was the
most terrible morning. Paul disliked me more and more,
and Evie talked cricket averages till 1 nearly screamed. I
cannot think how I stood her all the other days. At last
Charles and his father started for the station, and then
came your telegram warning me that Aunt Juky was
coming by that train, and Paul oh, rather horrible said
that I had muddled it. But Mrs. Wikox knew/'
"Knew what?"
"Everything; though we neither of us told her a word,
and had known all akmg, I think."
"Oh, she must have overheard you."
"1 suppose so, but it seemed wonderful. When
Charles and Aunt Juley drove up, calling each other
names, Mrs. Wikox stepped in from the garden and
made everything less terrible. Ugh! but it has been a
disgusting business. To think that" She sighed.
'To think that because you and a young man meet
27
for a moment, there must be ail these telegrams and
anger," supplied Margaret.
Helen nodded.
"I've often thought about it, Helen. It's one of the
most interesting things in the world. The truth is that
there is a great outer life that you and I have never
touched a life in which telegrams and anger count. Per-
sonal relations, that we think supreme, are not supreme
there. There love means marriage settlements, death,
death duties. So far I'm dear. But here my difficulty.
This outer life, though obviously horrid, often seems the
real one there's grit in it. It does breed character. Do
personal relations lead to sloppiness in the end?"
"Oh, Meg, that's what I felt, only not so dearly, when
the Wilcoxes were so competent, and seemed to have
their hands on all the ropes."
"Don't you feel it now?"
"I remember Paul at breakfast," said Helen quietly.
"I shall never forget him. He had nothing to fall back
upon. I know that personal relations are the real life, for
ever and ever."
"Amen!"
So the Wilcox episode fell into the background, leav-
ing behind it memories of sweetness and horror that
mingled, and the sisters pursued the life that Helen had
commended. They talked to each other and to other
people, they filled the tall thin house at Wickham Place
with those whom they liked or could befriend. They
even attended public meetings. In their own fashion they
cared deeply about politics, though not as politicians
would have us care; they desired that public life should
mirror whatever is good in the life within. Temperance,
tolerance, and sexual equality were intelligible cries to
them; whereas they did not follow our Forward Policy
in Thibet with the keen attention that it merits, and
would at times dismiss the whole British Empire with a
puzzled, if reverent, sigh. Not out of them are the shows
28
of history erected: the world would be a grey, bloodless
place were it entirely composed of Miss Schlegels. But
the world being what it is, perhaps they shine out in It
like stars.
A word on their origin. They were not "English to
the backbone/' as their aunt had piously asserted. But,
on the other hand, they were not "Germans of the
dreadful sort/' Their father had belonged to a type that
was more prominent in Germany fifty years ago than
now. He was not the aggressive German, so dear to the
English journalist, nor the domestic German,, so dear to
the English wit. If one classed him at all, it would be as
the countryman of Hegel and Kant, as the idealist, in-
clined to be dreamy, whose Imperialism was the Impe-
rialism of the air. Not that his life had been inactive. He
had fought like blazes against Denmark, Austria, France.
But he had fought without visualizing the results erf vk>
tory. A hint of the truth broke on him after Sedan, when
he saw the dyed moustaches of Napoleon going grey;
another when he entered Paris and saw the smashed
windows of the Tuileiies. Peace came it was aH very
immense, one had turned into an Empire but he knew
that some quality had vanished for which not all Alsace-
Lorraine could compensate him. Germany a commercial
Power, Germany a naval Power, Germany with colonies
here and a Forward Polky there, and legitimate aspira-
tions in the other place, might appeal to others, and be
fitly served by them; for his own part, he abstained from
the fruits of victory, and naturalized himself in England.
The more earnest members of his family never forgave
him, and knew that his children, though scarcely En-
glish erf the dreadful sort, would never be German to
the backbone. He had obtained work in one erf our pro-
vincial universities, and there married Poor Emily (or
Die Englanderin as the case may be), and as she had
money, they proceeded to London, and came to know
a good many people. But his gaze was always fixed be-
29
yond the sea. It was his hope that the clouds of mate-
rialism obscuring the Fatherland would part in time, and
the mild intellectual light reemerge. "Do you imply that
we Germans are stupid, Uncle Ernst?" exclaimed a
haughty and magnificent nephew. Uncle Ernst replied:
'To my mind. You use the intellect, but you no longer
care about it. That I call stupidity." As the haughty
nephew did not follow, he continued: "You only care
about the things that you can use, and therefore arrange
them in the following order: Money, supremely useful;
intellect, rather useful; imagination, of no use at all.
No" for the other had protested "your Pan-German-
ism is no more imaginative than is our Imperalism over
here. It is the vice of a vulgar mind to be thrilled by
bigness, to think that a thousand square miles are a
thousand times more wonderful than one square mile,
and that a million square miles are almost the same as
heaven. That is not imagination. No, it kills it. When
their poets over here try to celebrate bigness they are
dead at once, and naturally. Your poets too are dying,
your philosophers, your musicians, to whom Europe has
listened for two hundred years. Gone. Gone with the
little courts that nurtured them gone with Esterhaz and
Weimar. What? What's that? Your universities? Oh, yes,
you have learned men, who collect more facts than do
the learned men of England. They collect facts, and facts,
and empires of facts. But which of them will rekindle
the light within?"
To all this Margaret listened, sitting on the haughty
nephew's knee.
It was a unique education for the little girls. The
haughty nephew would be at Wickham Place one day,
bringing with him an even haughtier wife, both con-
vinced that Germany was appointed by God to govern
the world. Aunt Juley would come the next day, con-
vinced that Great Britain had been appointed to the same
post by the same authority. Were both these loud-voiced
30
parties right? On one occasion they had met, and Mar-
garet with clasped hands had implored them to argue
the subject out in her presence. Whereat they blushed
and began to talk about the weather. "Papa/' she
cried she was a most offensive child "why will they
not discuss this most clear question?" Her father, sur-
veying the parties grimly, replied that he did not know.
Putting her head on one side, Margaret then remarked:
"To me one of two things is very clear; either God does
not know his own mind about England and Germany,
or else these do not know the mind of God." A hateful
little girl, but at thirteen she had grasped a dilemma that
most people travel through life without perceiving. Her
brain darted up and down; it grew pliant and strong.
Her conclusion was that any human being lies nearer to
the unseen than any organization, and from this she
never varied.
Helen advanced along the same lines, though with a
more irresponsible tread. In character she resembled her
sister, but she was pretty, and so apt to have a more
amusing time. People gathered round her more readily,
especially when they were new acquaintances, and she
did enjoy a little homage very much. When their father
died and they ruled alone at Wkkham Place, she often
absorbed the whole of the company, while Margaret
both were tremendous talkers fell Eat. Neither sister
bothered about this. Helen never apologized afterwards,
Margaret did not feel the slightest rancour. But looks
have their influence upon character. The sisters were
alike as little girls, but at the time of the Wikox episode
their methods were beginning to diverge; the younger
was rather apt to entice people, and, in entking them,
to be herself enticed; the elder went straight ahead, and
accepted an occasional failure as part of the game.
Little need be premised about Tibby. He was now an
intelligent man erf sixteen, but dyspeptic and difficile.
CHAPTER
5
It will be generally admitted that Beethoven's Fifth Sym-
phony is the most sublime noise that has ever pene-
trated into the ear of man. All sorts and conditions are
satisfied by it. Whether you are like Mrs. Munt, and tap
surreptitiously when the tunes come of course, not so
as to disturb the others; or like Helen, who can see he-
roes and shipwrecks in the music's flood; or like Mar-
garet, who can only see the music; or like Tibby, who is
profoundly versed in counterpoint, and holds the full
score open on his knee; or like their cousin, Fraulein
Mosebach, who remembers all the time that Beethoven
is "echt Deutsch"; or like Fraulein Mosebach's young
man, who can remember nothing but Fraulein Mose-
bach: in any case, the passion of your life becomes more
vivid, and you are bound to admit that such a noise is
cheap at two shillings. It is cheap, even if you hear it in
the Queen's Hall, dreariest musk-room in London,
though not as dreary as the Free Trade Hall, Manches-
ter; and even if you sit on the extreme left of that hall,
so that the brass bumps at you before the rest of the
orchestra arrives, it is still cheap.
"Who is Margaret talking to?" said Mrs. Munt, at the
conclusion of the first movement. She was again in Lon-
don on a visit to Wickham Place.
Helen looked down the long line of their party and
said that she did not know.
"Would it be some young man or other whom she
takes an interest in?"
"I expect so/' Helen replied. Music enwrapped her,
and she could not enter into the distinction that divides
young men whom one takes an interest in from young
men whom one knows.
"You girls are so wonderful in always having Oh
dear! One mustn't talk."
For the Andante had begun very beautiful, but bear-
ing a family likeness to all the other beautiful Andantes
that Beethoven had written, and, to Helen's mind, rather
disconnecting the heroes and shipwrecks of the first
movement from the heroes and goblins of the third. She
heard the tune through once, and then her attention
wandered, and she gazed at the audience, or the organ,
or the architecture. Much did she censure the attenuated
Cupids who encircle the ceiling of the Queen's Hall, in-
dining each to each with vapid gesture, and clad in sal-
low pantaloons, on which the October sunlight struck.
"How awful to rnarry a man like those Cupids!" thought
Helen. Here Beethoven started decorating his tune f so
she heard him through once more, and then she smiled
at her cousin Frieda. But Frieda, listening to Classical
Music, could not respond. Herr Liesecke, too, looked as
if wild horses could not make him inattentive; there were
lines across his forehead, his lips were parted, his piiKe-
nez at right angles to his nose, and he had laid a thick,
white hand on either knee. And next to her was Aunt
Juley, so British, and wanting to tap. How interesting
that row of people was! What diverse influences had
gone to the making! Here Beethoven, after humming
and hawing with great sweetness, said "Heigho," and
the Andante came to an end. Applause, and a round erf
"wunderschoning" and "prachtvolleying" from the
German contingent. Mairgaret started talking to her new
young man; Helen said to her aunt: "Now comes the
wonderful movement: first erf all the goblins, and then
a trio erf elephants dancing"; and TIfoby impkwed the
company generally to look out for the transitional pas-
sage on the drum.
B
"On the what, dear?"
"On the drum, Aunt Juiey/'
"No; look out for the part where you think you have
done with the goblins and they come back/' breathed
Helen, as the music started with a goblin walking qui-
etly over the universe, from end to end. Others followed
him. They were not aggressive creatures; it was that that
made them so terrible to Helen. They merely observed
in passing that there was no such thing as splendour or
heroism in the world. After the interlude of elephants
dancing, they returned and made the observation for
the second time. Helen could not contradict them, for,
once at all events, she had felt the same, and had seen
the reliable walls of youth collapse. Panic and empti-
ness! Panic and emptiness! The goblins were right.
Her brother raised his finger: it was the transitional
passage on the drum.
For, as if things were going too far, Beethoven took
hold of the goblins and made them do what he wanted.
He appeared in person. He gave them a little push, and
they began to walk in major key instead of in a minor,
and then he blew with his mouth and they were scat-
tered! Gusts of splendour, gods and demi-gods con-
tending with vast swords, colour and fragrance
broadcast on the field of battle, magnificent victory,
magnificent death! Oh, it all burst before the girl, and
she even stretched out her gloved hands as if it was
tangible. Any fate was titanic; any contest desirable;
conqueror and conquered would alike be applauded by
the angels of the utmost stars.
And the goblins they had not really been there at
all? They were only the phantoms of cowardice and un-
belief? One healthy human impulse would dispel them?
Men like the Wilcoxes, or President Roosevelt, would
say yes. Beethoven knew better. The goblins really had
been there. They might return and they did. It was as
34
if the splendour of life might boil over and waste to
steam and froth. In its dissolution one heard the terrible,
ominous note, and a goblin, with increased malignity,
walked quietly over the universe from end to end. Panic
and emptiness! Pank and emptiness! Even the flaming
ramparts of the world might fall.
Beethoven chose to make all right in the end. He built
the ramparts up. He blew with his mouth for the second
time, and again the goblins were scattered. He brought
back the gusts of splendour, the heroism, the youth, the
magnificence of life and erf death, and, amid vast roar-
ings of a superhuman joy, he led his Fifth Symphony to
its conclusion. But the goblins were there. They could
return. He had said so bravely, and that is why one can
trust Beethoven when he says other things.
Helen pushed her way out during the applause. She
desired to be alone. The musk summed up to her all
that had happened or could happen in her career. She
read it as a tangible statement, which could never be
superseded. The notes meant this and that to her, and
they could have no other meaning, and life could have
no other meaning. She pushed right out of the building,
and walked slowly down the outside staircase, breath-
ing the autumnal air, and then she strolled home,
"Margaret," called Mrs. Munt, "is Helen all right?"
"Oh yes/'
"She is always going away in the middle erf a pro-
gramme," said T&by.
'The musk has evidently moved her deeply," said
Frautein Mosebach.
"Excuse me/' said Margaret's young man, who had
for some time been preparing a sentence, "but that lady
has, quite inadvertently, taken my umbrella/'
"Oh, good gracious mel I am so sorry. Hbby, run
after Helen/'
"I shall miss the Four Serious Songs if I do/'
35
"Tibby love, you must go."
"It isn't of any consequence/' said the young man,
in truth a little uneasy about his umbrella.
"But of course it is. Tibby! Tibby!"
Tibby rose to his feet, and wilfully caught his person
on the backs of the chairs. By the time he had tipped up
the seat and had found his hat, and had deposited his
full score in safety, it was "too late" to go after Helen.
The Four Serious Songs had begun, and one could not
move during their performance.
"My sister is so careless," whispered Margaret.
"Not at all," replied the young man; but his voice
was dead and cold.
"If you would give me your address "
"Oh, not at all, not at all"; and he wrapped his great-
coat over his knees.
Then the Four Serious Songs rang shallow in Mar-
garet's ears. Brahms, for all his grumbling and grizzling,
had never guessed what it felt like to be suspected of
stealing an umbrella. For this fool of a young man
thought that she and Helen and Tibby had been playing
the confidence trick on him, and that if he gave his ad-
dress they would break into his rooms some midnight
or other and steal his walking-stick too. Most ladies
would have laughed, but Margaret really minded, for it
gave her a glimpse into squalor. To trust people is a
luxury in which only the wealthy can indulge; the poor
cannot afford it. As soon as Brahms had grunted himself
out, she gave him her card and said: "That is where we
live; if you preferred, you could call for your umbrella
after the concert, but I didn't like to trouble you when
it has all been our fault."
His face brightened a little when he saw that Wick-
ham Place was W. It was sad to see him corroded with
suspicion, and yet not daring to be impolite, in case
these well-dressed people were honest after all. She took
it as a good sign that he said to her: "It's a fine pro-
36
gramme this afternoon, is it not?" for this was the re-
mark with which he had originally opened, before the
umbrella intervened,
"The Beethoven's fine/' said Margaret, who was not
a female of the encouraging type, "I don't like the
Brahms, though, nor the Mendelssohn that came first ~
and ugh! I don't like this Elgar that's conning/'
"What, what?" called Herr Liesecke, overhearing.
"The Pomp and Circumstance will not be fine?"
"Oh, Margaret, you tiresome girl!" cried her aunt.
"Here have I been persuading Herr LJesecke to stop for
Pomp and Circumstance, and you are undoing all my
work. I am so anxious for him to hear what we are doing
in musk. Oh, you mustn't run down our English coin-
posers, Margaret."
"For my part, I have heard the composition at Stet-
tin," said Fraulein Mosebach. "On two occasions. It is
dramatic, a little/'
"Frieda, you despise English musk. You know you
do. And English art. And English literature, except
Shakespeare and he's a German. Very well, Frieda, you
may go."
The lovers laughed and glanced at each other. Moved
by a common impulse, they rose to their feet and fed
from Pomp and Circumstance.
"We have this call to pay in Finsbury Circus, it is
true," said Herr Liesecke, as he edged past her and
reached the gangway just as the musk started.
"Margaret" loudly whispered by Aunt )uley.
"Margaret, Margaret! Fraulein Mosebach has kft her
beautiful little bag behind her on the seat/'
Sure enough, there was Frieda's reticule, omtaWng
her address book, her pocket dictionary, her map erf
London, and her money.
"Oh, what a bother what a family we are! Fr
Frieda!"
"Hush!" said all those who thought the musk fine.
37
"But it's the number they want in Finsbury Cir-
cus--"
"Might I couldn't I" said the suspicious young
man, and got very red.
"Oh, I would be so grateful."
He took the bag money clinking inside itand
slipped up the gangway with it. He was just in time to
catch them at the swing-door, and he received a pretty
smile from the German girl and a fine bow from her
cavalier. He returned to his seat up-sides with the world.
The trust that they had reposed in him was trivial, but
he felt that it cancelled his mistrust for them, and that
probably he would not be "had" over his umbrella. This
young man had been "had" in the past badly, perhaps
overwhelmingly and now most of his energies went in
defending himself against the unknown. But this after-
noon perhaps on account of music he perceived that
one must slack off occasionally, or what is the good of
being alive? Wickham Place, W., though a risk, was as
safe as most things, and he would risk it.
So when the concert was over and Margaret said:
"We live quite near; I am going there now. Could you
walk around with me, and we'll find your umbrella?"
he said: "Thank you," peaceably, and followed her out
of the Queen's Hall. She wished that he was not so anx-
ious to hand a lady downstairs, or to carry a lady's pro-
gramme for her his class was near enough her own for
its manners to vex her. But she found him interesting
on the whole everyone interested the Schlegels, on the
whole, at that time and while her lips talked culture,
her heart was planning to invite him to tea.
"How tired one gets after music!" she began.
"Do you find the atmosphere of Queen's Hall op-
pressive?"
"Yes, horribly."
"But surely the atmosphere of Covent Garden is even
more oppressive."
38
"Do you go there much?"
"When my work permits, I attend the gallery for the
Royal Opera."
Helen would have exclaimed: "So do I. I love the
gallery/' and thus have endeared herself to the young
man. Helen could do these things. But Margaret had an
almost morbid horror of "drawing people out/' of
"making things go/' She had been to the gallery at Co-
vent Garden, but she did not "attend" it, preferring the
more expensive seats; still less did she love it. So she
made no reply.
"This year I have been three times to Faust, Tosca,
and" Was it "Tannhouser" or "Tannhoyser"? Better
not risk the word.
Margaret disliked Tosca and Paws*. And so, for one
reason and another, they walked on in silence, chaper-
oned by the voke of Mrs. Munt, who was getting into
difficulties with her nephew.
"I do in a way remember the passage, Tibby, but
when every instrument is so beautiful, it is difficult to
pick out one thing rather than another. 1 am sure that
you and Helen take me to the very nicest concerts. Not
a dull note from beginning to end. I only wish that our
German friends would have stayed till it finished."
"But surely you haven't forgotten the drum steadily
beating on the low C, Aunt Juley?" came Tibby's voke.
"No one could. It's unmistakable."
"A specially loud part?" hazarded Mrs. Murtt "Of
course, I do not go in foe being muskal/' she added,
the shot failing. "I only care far musk a very different
thing. But still I will say this for myself I do know when
I like a thing and when I don't. Some people are the
same about pictures. They can go into a picture gallery
Miss Corader can and say straight off what they feel,
all round the wall. I never could do that. But musk is
so different to pictures, to my mind. When it conies to
musk I am as safe as houses, and I assure you, Tibby, I
39
am by no means pleased by everything. There was a
thing something about a faun in French which Helen
went into ecstasies over, but I thought it most tinkling
and superficial, and said so, and I held to my opinion
too."
"Do you agree?" asked Margaret. "Do you think mu-
sic is so different to pictures?"
"II should have thought so, kind of," he said.
"So should L Now, my sister declares they're just the
same. We have great arguments over it. She says I'm
dense; I say she's sloppy." Getting under way, she
cried: "Now, doesn't it seem absurd to you? What zs
the good of the arts if they're interchangeable? What is
the good of the ear if it tells you the same as the eye?
Helen's one aim is to translate tunes into the language
of painting, and pictures into the language of music.
It's very ingenious, and she says several pretty things in
the process, but what's gained, I'd like to know? Oh, it's
all rubbish, radically false. If Monet's really Debussy,
and Debussy's really Monet, neither gentleman is worth
his salt that's my opinion."
Evidently these sisters quarrelled.
"Now, this very symphony that we've just been hav-
ingshe won't let it alone. She labels it with meanings
from start to finish; turns it into literature. I wonder if
the day will ever return when music will be treated as
music. Yet I don't know. There's my brother behind
us. He treats music as music, and oh, my goodness! he
makes me angrier than anyone, simply furious. With
him I daren't even argue."
An unhappy family, if talented,
"But, of course, the real villain is Wagner. He has
done more than any man in the nineteenth century to-
wards the muddling of arts. I do feel that music is in a
very serious state just now, though extraordinarily in-
teresting. Every now and then in history there do come
these terrible geniuses, like Wagner, who stir up all the
40
wells of thought at once. For a moment it's splendid.
Such a splash as never was. But afterwards such a lot
of mud; and the wells as it were, they communkate
with each other too easily now, and not one of them will
run quite clear. That's what Wagner's done/'
Her speeches fluttered away from the young man like
birds. If only he could talk like this, he would have
caught the world. Oh, to acquire culture! Oh, to pro-
nounce foreign names correctly! Oh, to be well in-
formed, discoursing at ease on every subject that a lady
started! But it would take one years. With an hour at
lunch and a few shattered hours in the evening, how
was it possible to catch up with leisured women who
had been reading steadily from childhood? His brain
might be full of names, he might have even heard of
Monet and Debussy; the trouble was that he could not
string them together into a sentence, he could not make
them "tell," he could not quite forget about his stolen
umbrella. Yes, the umbrella was the real trouble. Behind
Monet and Debussy the umbrella persisted, with the
steady beat of a drum. "I suppose my umbrella will be
all right/' he was thinking. "I don't really mind about
it. I will think about musk instead. I suppose my um-
brella will be all right." Earlier in the afternoon he had
worried about seats. Ought he to have paid as much as
two shillings? Earlier still he had wondered: "ShaS I try
to do without a programme?" There had always been
something to worry him ever since he could remember,
always something that distracted him in the pursuit of
beauty. For he did pursue beauty, and, therefore, Mar-
garet's speeches did flutter away from him like birds.
Margaret talked ahead, occasionally saying: "Don't
you think so? Don't you fed the same?" And once she
stopped, and said: "Oh, do interrupt me!" which ter-
rified him. She did not attract him, though she filled him
with awe. Her figure was meagre, her face seemed all
teeth and eyes, her references to her sister and brother
41
were uncharitable. For all her cleverness and culture,
she was probably one of those soulless, atheistical
women who have been so shown up by Miss Corelli. It
was surprising (and alarming) that she should suddenly
say: "I do hope that you'll come in and have some tea."
"I do hope that you'll come in and have some tea.
We should be so glad. I have dragged you so far out of
your way/'
They had arrived at Wickham Place. The sun had set,
and the backwater, in deep shadow, was filling with a
gentle haze. To the right the fantastic skyline of the flats
towered black against the hues of evening; to the left
the older houses raised a square-cut, irregular parapet
against the grey. Margaret fumbled for her latchkey. Of
course she had forgotten it. So, grasping her umbrella
by its ferrule, she leant over the area and tapped at the
dining-room window.
"Helen! Let us in!"
"All right," said a voice.
"You've been taking this gentleman's umbrella."
"Taken a what?" said Helen, opening the door. "Oh,
what's that? Do come in! How do you do?"
"Helen, you must not be so ramshackly. You took
this gentleman's umbrella away from Queen's Hall, and
he has had the trouble of coming for it."
"Oh, I am so sorry!" cried Helen, all her hair flying.
She had pulled off her hat as soon as she returned, and
had flung herself into the big dining-room chair. "I do
nothing but steal umbrellas. I am so very sorry! Do come
in and choose one. Is yours a hooky or a nobbly? Mine's
a nobbly at least, I think it is."
The light was turned on, and they began to search
the hall, Helen, who had abruptly parted with the Fifth
Symphony, commenting with shrill little cries.
"Don't you talk, Meg! You stole an old gentleman's
silk top-hat. Yes, she did, Aunt Juley. It is a positive
fact. She thought it was a muff. Oh, heavens! I've
42
knocked the In and Out card down. Where's Frieda?
Tibby, why don't you ever? No, I can't remember what
I was going to say. That wasn't it, but do tell the maids
to hurry tea up. What about this umbrella?" She opened
it. "No, it's all gone along the seams. It's an appalling
umbrella. It must be mine."
But it was not.
He took it from her, murmured a few words of
thanks, and then fled, with the lilting step of the clerk.
"But if you will stop" cried Margaret. "Now,
Helen, how stupid you've been!"
"Whatever have I done?"
"Don't you see that you've frightened him away? I
meant him to stop to tea. You oughtn't to talk about
stealing or holes in an umbrella. I saw his nke eyes get-
ting so miserable. No, it's not a bit of good now." For
Helen had darted out into the street, shouting: "Oh, do
stop!"
"I dare say it is all for the best," opined Mrs. Munt.
"We know nothing about the young man, Margaret, and
your drawing-room is full of very tempting little things."
But Helen cried: "Aunt Juley, how can you! You make
me more and more ashamed. I'd rather he had been a
thief and taken all the apostle spoons than that I Well,
I must shut the front door, I suppose. One more failure
for Helen."
"Yes, I think the apostle spoons could have gone as
rent/' said Margaret. Seeing that her aunt did not un-
derstand, she added: "You remember 'rent/ It was o^e
of father's words rent to the ideal, to his own faith in
human nature. You remember how he would trust
strangers, and if they footed him he would say: It's
better to be fooled than to be suspicious' that the
confidetKe trick is the work of man, but the want-of-
canfidence trick is the work of the devil."
"I remember something of the sort now," said Mrs.
Munt, rather tartly, for she longed to add: "It was lucky
43
that your father married a wife with money/' But this
was unkind, and she contented herself with: "Why, he
might have stolen the little Ricketts picture as well."
"Better that he had/' said Helen stoutly.
"No, I agree with Aunt Juley," said Margaret. "I'd
rather mistrust people than lose my little Ricketts. There
are limits."
Their brother, finding the incident commonplace, had
stolen upstairs to see whether there were scones for tea.
He warmed the teapot almost too deftly rejected the
Orange Pekoe that the parlour-maid had provided,
poured in five spoonfuls of a superior blend, filled up
with really boiling water, and now called to the ladies
to be quick or they would lose the aroma.
"All right, Auntie Tibby," called Helen, while Mar-
garet, thoughtful again, said: "In a way, I wish we had
a real boy in the house the kind of boy who cares for
men. It would make entertaining so much easier."
"So do I," said her sister. "Tibby only cares for cul-
tured females singing Brahms." And when they joined
him she said rather sharply: "Why didn't you make that
young man welcome, Tibby? You must do the host a
little, you know. You ought to have taken his hat and
coaxed him into stopping, instead of letting him be
swamped by screaming women."
Tibby sighed, and drew a long strand of hair over his
forehead.
"Oh, it's no good looking superior. I mean what I
say."
"Leave Tibby alone!" said Margaret, who could not
bear her brother to be scolded.
"Here the house's a regular hen-coop!" grumbled
Helen.
"Oh, my dear!" protested Mrs. Munt. "How can you
say such dreadful things! The number of men you get
here has always astonished me. If there is any danger,
it's the other way round."
44
"Yes, but it's the wrong sort of men, Helen means."
"No, I don't/' corrected Helen. "We get the right
sort of man, but the wrong side of him, and I say that's
Tibby's fault. There ought to be a something about the
houseanI don't know what/'
"A touch of the W/s, perhaps?"
Helen put out her tongue.
"Who are the W/s?" asked Tibby.
"The W/s are things I and Meg and Aunt Juley know
about and you don't, so there!"
"I suppose that ours is a female house/' said Mar-
garet, "and one must just accept it. No, Aunt Juley, I
don't mean that this house is full of women. I am trying
to say something much more clever. I mean that it was
irrevocably feminine, even in father's time. Now I'm
sure you understand! Well, I'll g^ve you another exam-
ple. It'll shock you, but I don't care. Suppose Queen
Victoria gave a dinner-party, and that the guests had
been Leighton, Millais, Swinburne, Rossetti, Meredith,
Fitzgerald, etc. Do you suppose that the atmosphere of
that dinner would have been artistk? Heavens, no! The
very chairs on which they sat would have seen to that.
So with our house it must be feminine, and aD we can
do is to see that it isn't effeminate, Just as another house
that I can mention, but I won't, sounded irrevocably
masculine, and all its inmates can do is to see that it
isn't brutal."
"That house being the W/s house, I prestinte," said
Tibby.
"You're not going to be told about the W/s, my
child/' Helen cried, "so don't you think it. And on the
other hand, I don't the feast mind if you find out, so
don't you think you've done anything clever, in either
case. Give me a cigarette/'
"You do what you can for the house," said Margaret.
"The drawing-room redes of smoke/'
"If you smofced too, the house might suddenly turn
45
masculine. Atmosphere is probably a question of touch
and go. Even at Queen Victoria's dinner-party if some-
thing had been just a little differentperhaps if she'd
worn a dinging Liberty tea-gown instead of a magenta
satin"
"With an Indian shawl over her shoulders"
"Fastened at the bosom with a Cairngorm-pin"
Bursts of disloyal laugher you must remember that
they are half-Germangreeted these suggestions, and
Margaret said pensively: "How inconceivable it would
be if the Royal Family cared about art." And the con-
versation drifted away and away, and Helen's cigarette
turned to a spot in the darkness, and the great flats op-
posite were sown with lighted windows, which van-
ished and were relit again, and vanished incessantly.
Beyond them the thoroughfare roared gently a tide that
could never be quiet, while in the east, invisible behind
the smokes of Wapping, the moon was rising.
"That reminds me, Margaret. We might have taken
that young man into the dining-room, at all events. Only
the majolica plate and that is so firmly set in the wall.
I am really distressed that he had no tea."
For that little incident had impressed the three women
more than might be supposed. It remained as a goblin
footfall, as a hint that all is not for the best in the best
of all possible worlds, and that beneath these super-
structures of wealth and art there wanders an ill-fed boy,
who has recovered his umbrella indeed, but who has
left no address behind him, and no name.
CHAPTER
6
We are not concerned with the very poor. They are un-
thinkable, and only to be approached by the statistician
or the poet. This story deals with gentlefolk, or with
those who are obliged to pretend that they are gentle-
folk.
The boy, Leonard Bast, stood at the extreme verge of
gentility. He was not in the abyss, but he could see it,
and at times people whom he knew had dropped in,
and counted no more. He knew that he was poor, and
would admit it: he would have died sooner than confess
any inferiority to the rich. This may be splendid of him.
But he was inferior to most rich people, there is not the
least doubt of it. He was not as courteous as the average
rich man, nor as intelligent, nor as healthy, nor as lov-
able. His mind and his body had been alike underfed,
because he was poor, and because he was modern they
were always craving better food. Had he lived some cen-
turies ago, in the brightly coloured civilizations of the
past, he would have had a definite status, his rank and
his income would have corresponded. But in his day the
angel of Democracy had arisen, enshadowing the dasses
with leathern wings, and p^Hdauning: "All men are
equal all men, that is to say, who possess umbrellas/'
and so he was obliged to assert gentility, lest he dipped
into the abyss where nothing counts and the statements
of Democracy are inaudible.
As he walked away from Wkkham Place, his first care
was to prove that he was as good as the Miss Schiegels.
Obscurely wounded in his pride, he tried to wotind
them in return. They were probably not ladies. Would
real ladles have asked him to tea? They were certainly
47
ill-natured and cold. At each step his feeling of superi-
ority increased. Would a real lady have talked about
stealing an umbrella? Perhaps they were thieves after
all, and if he had gone into the house they would have
dapped a chloroformed handkerchief over his face. He
walked on complacently as far as the Houses of Parlia-
ment. There an empty stomach asserted itself, and told
him that he was a fool.
"Evening, Mr. Bast/'
"Evening, Mr. Dealtry."
"Nice evening."
"Evening."
Mr. Dealtry, a fellow clerk, passed on, and Leonard
stood wondering whether he would take the tram as far
as a penny would take him, or whether he would walk.
He decided to walk it is no good giving in, and he had
spent money enough at Queen's Hall and he walked
over Westminster Bridge, in front of St. Thomas's Hos-
pital, and through the immense tunnel that passes un-
der the South- Western main line at Vauxhall. In the
tunnel he paused and listened to the roar of the trains.
A sharp pain darted through his head, and he was con-
scious of the exact form of his eye sockets. He pushed
on for another mile, and did not slacken speed until he
stood at the entrance of a road called Camelia Road,
which was at present his home.
Here he stopped again, and glanced suspiciously to
right and left, like a rabbit that is going to bolt into its
hole. A block of flats, constructed with extreme cheap-
ness, towered on either hand. Farther down the road
two more blocks were being built, and beyond these an
old house was being demolished to accommodate an-
other pair. It was the kind of scene that may be observed
all over London, whatever the locality bricks and mor-
tar rising and falling with the restlessness of the water
in a fountain, as the city receives more and more men
upon her soil. Camelia Road would soon stand out like
48
a fortress, and command, for a little, an extensive view.
Only for a little. Bans were out for the erection of fiats
in Magnolia Road also. And again a few years, and all
the flats in either road might be pulled down, and new
buildings, of a vastness at present unimaginable, might
arise where they had fallen.
"Evening, Mr. Bast."
"Evening, Mr. Cunningham."
"Very serious thing, this decline of the birth-rate in
Manchester."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Very serious thing, this decline of the birth-rate in
Manchester," repeated Mr. Cunningham, tapping the
Sunday paper, in which the calamity in question had
just been announced to^him.
"Ah, yes," said Leonard, who was not going to let
on that he had not bought a Sunday paper,
"If this kind of thing goes on, the population of En-
gland will be stationary in 1960."
"You don't say so."
"1 call it a very serious thing, eh?"
"Good evening, Mr. Cunningham/'
"Good evening, Mr. Bast."
Then Leonard entered Block B of the Eats, and turned,
not upstairs, but down, into what is known to house
agents as a semi-basement, and to other men as a cellar.
He opened the door, and cried "Hullo!" with the
pseudo-geniality of the Cockney, There was no reply.
"Hulk>!" he repeated. The sitting-room was empty,
thougji the electric light had been left burning. A look
of relief came over his face, and he flung himself Into
the armchair.
The sitting-room contained, besides the armchair, two
other chairs, a piano, a three-legged table, and a assy
comer. Of the walls, one was occupied by the window,
the other by a draped mantelshelf bristling with Cupids.
Opposite the window was the door, and beside the door
49
a bookcase, while over the piano there extended one of
the masterpieces of Maud Goodman. It was an amorous
and not unpleasant little hole when the curtains were
drawn, and the lights turned on, and the gas-stove un-
lit. But it struck that shallow makeshift note that is so
often heard in the modern dwelling-place. It had been
too easily gained, and could be relinquished too easily.
As Leonard was kicking off his boots he jarred the
three-legged table, and a photograph frame, honourably
poised upon it, slid sideways, fell off into the fireplace,
and smashed. He swore in a colourless sort of way, and
picked the photograph up. It represented a young lady
called Jacky, and had been taken at the time when young
ladies called Jacky were often photographed with their
mouths open. Teeth of dazzling whiteness extended
along either of Jacky's jaws, and positively weighed her
head sideways, so large were they and so numerous.
Take my word for it, that smile was simply stunning,
and it is only you and I who will be fastidious, and com-
plain that true joy begins in the eyes, and that the eyes
of Jacky did not accord with her smile, but were anxious
and hungry.
Leonard tried to pull out the fragments of glass, and
cut his fingers and swore again. A drop of blood fell on
the frame, another followed, spilling over on to the ex-
posed photograph. He swore more vigorously, and
dashed into the kitchen, where he bathed his hands.
The kitchen was the same size as the sitting-room;
through it was a bedroom. This completed his home.
He was renting the fiat furnished: of all the objects that
encumbered it, none were his own except the photo-
graph frame, the Cupids, and the books.
"Damn, damn, damnation! 7 ' he murmured, together
with such other words as he had learnt from older men.
Then he raised his hand to his forehead and said: "Oh,
damn it all" which meant something different. He
pulled himself together. He drank a little tea, black and
50
silent, that still survived upon an upper shelf. He swal-
lowed some dusty crumbs of a cake. Then he went back
to the sitting-room, settled himself anew, and began to
read a volume of Ruskin.
"Seven miles to the north of Venke "
How perfectly the famous chapter opens? How su-
preme its command of admonition and of poetry! The
rich man is speaking to us from his gondola.
"Seven miles to the north of Venice the banks of sand
which nearer the city rise little above low-water mark
attain by degrees a higher level, and knit themselves at
last into fields of salt morass, raised here and there into
shapeless mounds, and intercepted by narrow creeks of
sea."
Leonard was trying to form his style on Ruskin: he
understood him to be the greatest master of English
Prose. He read forward steadily, occasionally making a
few notes.
"Let us consider a little each of these characters in
succession, and first (for of the shafts enough has been
said already), what is very peculiar to this church its
luminousness . ' *
Was there anything to be learnt from this fine sen-
tence? Could he adapt it to the needs of daily life? Could
he introduce it, with modifications, when he next wrote
a letter to his brother, the lay reader? For example
"Let us consider a little each of these characters in
succession, and first (for of the absence of ventilation
enough has been said already}, what is very peculiar to
this flat its obscurity."
Something told him that the modifications would not
do; and that something, bad he known it, was the sparit
of English Prose, "My flat is dark as well SB stuffy."
Those were the words for him.
And fee voice in the gondola rolled on, piping me-
lodiously of Effort and Self-Sacrifice, full of high pur-
pose, full of beauty, full even erf sympathy and the love
of men, yet somehow eluding all that was actual and
insistent in Leonard's life. For it was the voice of one
who had never been dirty or hungry, and had not
guessed successfully what dirt and hunger are.
Leonard listened to it with reverence. He felt that he
was being done good to, and that if he kept on with
Ruskin, and the Queen's Hall Concerts, and some pic-
tures by Watts, he would one day push his head out of
the grey waters and see the universe. He believed in
sudden conversion, a belief which may be right, but
which is peculiarly attractive to a half-baked mind. It is
the basis of much popular religion: in the domain of
business it dominates the Stock Exchange, and becomes
that "bit of luck" by which all successes and failures are
explained. "If only I had a bit of luck, the whole thing
would come straight. . . . He's got a most magnificent
place down at Streatham and a 20 h.-p. Fiat, but then,
mind you, he's had luck. . . . I'm sorry the wife's so
late, but she never has any luck over catching trains."
Leonard was superior to these people; he did believe in
effort and in a steady preparation for the change that he
desired. But of a heritage that may expand gradually, he
had no conception: he hoped to come to Culture sud-
denly, much as the Revivalist hopes to come to Jesus.
Those Miss Schlegels had come to it; they had done the
trick; their hands were upon the ropes, once and for all.
And meanwhile, his flat was dark, as well as stuffy.
Presently there was a noise on the staircase. He shut
up Margaret's card in the pages of Ruskin, and opened
the door. A woman entered, of whom it is simplest to
say that she was not respectable. Her appearance was
awesome. She seemed all strings and bell-pulls rib-
bons, chains, bead necklaces that clinked and caught
and a boa of azure feathers hung round her neck, with
the ends uneven. Her throat was bare, wound with a
double row of pearls, her arms were bare to the elbows,
and might again be detected at the shoulder, through
cheap lace. Her hat, whkh was flowery, resembled those
punnets, covered with flannel, whkh we sowed with
mustard and cress in our childhood, and whkh germi-
nated here yes, and there no. She wore it on the back
of her head. As for her hair, or rather hairs, they are too
complicated to describe, but one system went down her
back, lying in a thkk pad there, while another, created
for a lighter destiny, rippled around her forehead. The
face the face does not signify. It was the face of the
photograph, but older, and the teeth were not so nu-
merous as the photographer had suggested, and cer-
tainly not so white. Yes, Jateky was past her prime,
whatever that prime may have been, She was descend-
ing quicker than most women into the colourless years,
and the look in her eyes confessed it.
''What ho!" said Leonard, greeting the apparition
with much spirit, and helping it off with its boa.
Jacky, in husky tones, replied: "What ho!"
"Been out?" he asked. The question sounds superflu-
ous, but it cannot have been really, for the lady an-
swered "No," adding: "Oh, I am so tired."
"You tired?"
"Eh?"
"I'm tired," said he, hanging the boa up.
"Oh, Len, I am so tired."
"I've been to that dasskal concert I told you about,"
said Leonard.
"What's that?"
"I came back as soon as it was over."
"Anyone been round to our place?" asked Jacky.
"Not that I've seen. I met Mr. Cunningham outside,
and we passed a few remarks."
"What, not Mr. Cunningham?"
"Yes."
"Oh, you mean Mr. Cunningham."
"Yes. Mr. Cunningham/'
"I've been out to tea at a lady friend's."
53
Her secret being at last given to the world, and the
name of the lady friend being even adumbrated, Jacky
made no further experiments in the difficult and tiring
art of conversation. She never had been a great talker.
Even in her photographic days she had relied upon her
smile and her figure to attract, and now that she was
On the shelf,
On the shelf,
Boys, boys, I'm on the shelf,
she was not likely to find her tongue. Occasional bursts
of song (of which the above is an example) still issued
from her lips, but the spoken word was rare.
She sat down on Leonard's knee, and began to fondle
him. She was now a massive woman of thirty-three, and
her weight hurt him, but he could not very well say
anything. Then she said: "Is that a book you're read-
ing?" and he said: "That's a book," and drew it from
her unreluctant grasp. Margaret's card fell out of it. It
fell face downwards, and he murmured: "Book-
marker."
"Len-"
"What is it?" he asked, a little wearily, for she only
had one topic of conversation when she sat upon his
knee.
"You do love me?"
"Jacky, you know that I do. How can you ask such
questions!"
"But you do love me, Len, don't you?"
"Of course I do."
A pause. The other remark was still due.
"Len-"
"Well? What is it?"
"Len, you will make it all right?"
"I can't have you ask me that again/' said the boy,
flaring up into a sudden passion. "I've promised to
marry you when I'm of age, and that's enough. My
word's my word. I've promised to marry you as soon
54
as ever I'm twenty-one, and I can't keep on being wor-
ried. I've worries enough. It isn't likely I'd throw you
over, let alone my word, when I've spent all this money.
Besides, I'm an Englishman, and I never go back on my
word. Jacky, do be reasonable. Of course I'll marry you.
Only do stop badgering me."
"When's your birthday, Len?"
"I've told you again and again, the eleventh of No-
vember next. Now get off my knee a bit; someone must
get supper, I suppose."
Jacky went through to the bedroom, and began to see
to her hat. This meant blowing at it with short sharp
puffs. Leonard tidied up the sitting-room, and began to
prepare their evening meal. He put a penny into the slot
of the gas-meter, and soon the flat was reeking with
metallic fumes. Somehow he could not recover his tem-
per, and all the time he was cooking he continued to
complain bitterly.
"It really is too bad when a fellow isn't trusted. It
makes one feel so wild, when I've pretended to the peo-
ple here that you're my wife all right, you sJW/ be my
wife and I've bought you the ring to wear, and I've
taken this flat furnished, and it's far more than 1 can
afford, and yet you aren't content, and I've also no* told
the truth when I've written home." He towered his
voke. "He'd stop it." In a tone of ftorror that was a
little luxurious, he repeated: "My bnsther'd stop it. I'm
going against the whole world, Jacky.
"That's what I am, Jacky. I don't take any heed of
what anyone says. I just go straight forward, I do. That's
always been my way. I'm not one of your weak knock-
kneed chaps. If a woman's in trouble, I don't leave her
in the lurch. That's not my street. No, thank you,
"I'll tell you another thing too. I care a good deal
about improving myself by means of Literature and Art,
and so getting a wider outlook. For instance, when you
came in I was reading Ruskin's Stones of Venice. I don't
55
say this to boast, but just to show you the kind of man
I am. I can tell you, I enjoyed that classical concert this
afternoon."
To all his moods Jacky remained equally indifferent.
When supper was ready and not before she emerged
from the bedroom, saying: "But you do love me, don't
you?"
They began with a soup square, which Leonard had
just dissolved in some hot water. It was followed by the
tongue a freckled cylinder of meat, with a little jelly at
the top, and a great deal of yellow fat at the bottom-
ending with another square dissolved in water (jelly:
pineapple), which Leonard had prepared earlier in the
day. Jacky ate contentedly enough, occasionally looking
at her man with those anxious eyes, to which nothing
else in her appearance corresponded, and which yet
seemed to mirror her soul. And Leonard managed to
convince his stomach that it was having a nourishing
meal.
After supper they smoked cigarettes and exchanged
a few statements. She observed that her "likeness" had
been broken. He found occasion to remark, for the sec-
ond time, that he had come straight back home after the
concert at Queen's Hall. Presently she sat upon his knee.
The inhabitants of Camelia Road tramped to and fro out-
side the window, just on a level with their heads, and
the family in the flat on the ground-floor began to sing:
"Hark, my soul, it is the Lord."
"That tune fairly gives me the hump," said Leonard.
Jacky followed this, and said that, for her part, she
thought it a lovely tune.
"No; I'll play you something lovely. Get up, dear, for
a minute."
He went to the piano and jingled out a little Grieg.
He played badly and vulgarly, but the performance was
not without its effect, for Jacky said she thought she'd
be going to bed. As she receded, a new set of interests
possessed the boy, and he began to think of what had
been said about musk by that odd Miss Schlegel the
one that twisted her face about so when she spoke. Then
the thoughts grew sad and envious. There was the girl
named Helen, who had pinched his umbrella, and the
German girl who had smiled at him pleasantly, and Herr
someone, and Aunt someone, and the brotherall, all
with their hands on the ropes. They had all passed up
that narrow, rich staircase at Wkkham Place, to some
ample room, whither he could never follow them, not if
he read for ten hours a day. Oh, it was no good; this
continual aspiration. Some are born cultured; the rest
had better go in for whatever comes easy. To see life
steadily and to see it whole was not for the likes of him.
From the darkness beyond the kitchen a voke called:
"Len?"
"You in bed?" he asked, his forehead twitching.
"M'm."
"All right."
Presently she called him again.
"I must clean my boots ready for the morning/' he
answered.
Presently she called him again,
"I rather want to get this chapter done."
"What?"
He dosed his ears against her.
"What's that?"
"All right, Jacky, nothing. I'm reading a book."
"What?"
"What?" he answered, catching her degraded deaf-
ness.
Presently she called him again,
Ruskin had visited TorceBo by this time, and was or-
dering his gondoliers to take him to Murano. It occurred
to him, as he glided over the whispering lagoons, that
57
the power of Nature could not be shortened by the folly
nor her beauty altogether saddened by the misery, of
such as Leonard.
CHAPTER
7
"Oh, Margaret/' cried her aunt next morning, "such a
most unfortunate thing has happened. I could not get
you alone."
The most unfortunate thing was not very serious. One
of the flats in the ornate block opposite had been taken
furnished by the Wilcox family, "coming up, no doubt,
in the hope of getting into London society." That Mrs.
Munt should be the first to discover the misfortune was
not remarkable, for she was so interested in the flats that
she watched their every mutation with unwearying care.
In theory she despised them they took away that old-
world look they cut off the sun flats house a flashy
type of person. But if the truth had been known, she
found her visits to Wickham Place twice as amusing
since Wickham Mansions had arisen, and would in a
couple of days learn more about them than her nieces
in a couple of months, or her nephew in a couple of
years. She would stroll across and make friends with the
porters, and inquire what the rents were, exclaiming for
example: "What! a hundred and twenty for a basement?
You'll never get it!" And they would answer: "One can
but try, madam." The passenger lifts, the provision lifts,
the arrangement for coals (a great temptation for a dis-
honest porter), were all familiar matters to her, and per-
haps a relief from the politico-economical-aesthetic
atmosphere that reigned at the Schlegels'.
Margaret received the information calmly, and did not
agree that it would throw a cloud over poor Helen's life.
58
"Oh, but Helen isn't a girl with no interests/' she
explained. "She has plenty of other things and other
people to think about. She made a false start with the
Wilcoxes, and she'll be as willing as we are to have noth-
ing more to do with them."
"For a clever girl, dear, how very oddly you do talk.
Helen'll have to have something more to do with them,
now that they're all opposite. She may meet that Paul
in the street. She cannot very well not bow."
"Of course she must bow. But look here; let's do the
flowers. I was going to say, the will to be interested in
him has died, and what else matters? I look on that di-
sastrous episode (over whkh you were so kind) as the
killing of a nerve in Helen. It's dead, and she'll never
be troubled with it again. The only things that matter
are the things that interest one. Bowing, even calling
and leaving cards, even a dinner-party we can do all
those things to the Wikoxes, if they find it agreeable;
but the other thing, the one important thingnever
again. Don't you see?"
Mrs. Munt did not see, and indeed Margaret was
making a most questionable statement that any emo-
tion, any interest once vividly aroused, can wholly die,
"I also have the honour to inform you that the Wil-
coxes are bored with us. I didn't tell you at the time it
might have made you angry, and you had enough to
worry you but I wrote a letter to Mrs. W., and apolo-
gized for the trouble that Helen had given them. She
didn't answer it."
"How very rode!"
"I wonder. Or was it sensible?"
"No, Margaret, mote rade."
"In either case, one can dass it as reassuring."
Mrs. Mtmt sighed. She was going bade to Swanage
on the morrow, fust as her nieces were wanting her
most. Other regrets crowded upon her. for instance,
how magnificently she would have cut Charles if she
59
had met him face to face. She had already seen him,
giving an order to the porter and very common he
looked in a tall hat. But unfortunately his back was
turned to her, and though she had cut his back, she
could not regard this as a telling snub.
"But you will be careful, won't you?" she exhorted.
"Oh, certainly. Fiendishly careful."
"And Helen must be careful, too."
"Careful over what?" cried Helen, at that moment
coming into the room with her cousin.
"Nothing/' said Margaret, seized with a momentary
awkwardness.
"Careful over what, Aunt Juley?"
Mrs. Munt assumed a cryptic air. "It is only that a
certain family, whom we know by name but do not
mention, as you said yourself last night after the con-
cert, have taken the flat opposite from the Mathesons
where the plants are in the balcony."
Helen began some laughing reply, and then discon-
certed them all by blushing. Mrs. Munt was so discon-
certed that she exdaimed: "What, Helen, you don't
mind them coming, do you?" and deepened the blush
to crimson.
"Of course I don't mind," said Helen a little crossly.
"It is that you and Meg are both so absurdly grave about
it, when there's nothing to be grave about at all."
"I'm not grave," protested Margaret, a little cross in
her turn.
"Well, you look grave; doesn't she, Frieda?"
"I don't feel grave, that's all I can say; you're going
quite on the wrong tack."
"No, she does not feel grave," echoed Mrs. Munt. "I
can bear witness to that. She disagrees"
"Hark!" interrupted Fraulein Mosebach. "I hear
Bruno entering the hall."
For Herr Liesecke was due at Wickham Place to call
for the two younger girls, He was not entering the hall-
do
in fact, he did not enter it for quite five minutes. But
Frieda detected a delicate situation, and said that she
and Helen had much better wait for Bruno down below
and leave Margaret and Mrs. Munt to finish arranging
the flowers. Helen acquiesced. But, as if to prove that
the situation was not delkate really, she stopped in the
doorway and said:
"Did you say the Mathesons" flat, Aunt Juley? How
wonderful you are! I never knew that the woman who
laced too tightly 's name was Matheson."
"Come, Helen/' said her cousin.
"Go, Helen," said her aunt; and continued to Mar-
garet almost in the same breath: "Helen cannot deceive
me. She does mind."
"Oh, hush!" breathed Margaret. "Friedall hear you,
and she can be so tiresome."
"She minds," persisted Mrs. Munt, moving thought-
fully about the room and pulling the dead chrysanthe-
mums out of the vases. "I knew she'd mind and I'm
sure a girl ought to! Such an experience! Such awful,
coarse-grained people! I know more about them than
you do, which you forget, and if Charles had taken you
that motor drive well, you'd have reached the house a
perfect wreck. Oh, Margaret, you don't know what you
are in for. They're all bottled up against the drawing-
room window. There's Mrs. Wilcox I've seen her.
There's Paul. There's Evie, who is a minx. There's
Charles I saw him to start with. And who would an
elderly man with a moustache and a copper-coloudred
face be?"
"Mr. Wikox, possibly."
"I knew it. And there's Mr. Wikox/'
"It's a shame to call his face copper colour/' com-
plained Margaret. "He has a remarkably good complex-
ion for a man erf his age."
Mrs. Munt, triumphant elsewhere, could afford to
concede Mr. Wikox his complexion. She passed on from
61
it to the plan of campaign that her nieces should pursue
in the future. Margaret tried to stop her.
"Helen did not take the news quite as I expected, but
the Wilcox nerve is dead in her really, so there's no need
for plans/ 7
"It's as well to be prepared/ 7
"No it's as well not to be prepared."
"Why?"
"Because"
Her thought drew being from the obscure border-
land. She could not explain in so many words, but she
felt that those who prepare for all the emergencies of
life beforehand may equip themselves at the expense of
joy. It is necessary to prepare for an examination, or
a dinner-party, or a possible fall in the price of stock:
those who attempt human relations must adopt another
method, or fail. "Because I'd sooner risk it," was her
lame conclusion.
"But imagine the evenings," exclaimed her aunt,
pointing to the mansions with the spout of the watering-
can. "Turn the electric light on here or there, and it's
almost the same room. One evening they may forget to
draw their blinds down, and you'll see them; and the
next, you yours, and they'll see you. Impossible to sit
out on the balconies. Impossible to water the plants, or
even speak. Imagine going out of the front door, and
they come out opposite at the same moment. And yet
you tell me that plans are unnecessary, and you'd rather
risk it."
"I hope to risk things all my life."
"Oh, Margaret, most dangerous."
"But after all," she continued with a smile, "there's
never any great risk as long as you have money/ 7
"Oh, shame! What a shocking speech!"
"Money pads the edges of things/' said Miss Schle-
gel. "God help those who have none."
"But this is something quite new!" said Mrs. Munt,
62
who collected new ideas as a squirrel collects nuts, and
was especially attracted by those that are portable.
"New for me; sensible people have acknowledged it
for years. You and I and the WOcoxes stand upon money
as upon islands* It is so firm beneath our feet that we
forget its very existence. It's only when we see someone
near us tottering that we realize all that an independent
income means. Last night, when we were talking up
here round the fire, I began to think that the very soul
of the world is economic, and that the lowest abyss is
not the absence of love, but the absence of coin/'
"I call that rather cynical."
"So do I. But Helen and I, we ought to remember,
when we are tempted to criticize others, that we are
standing on these islands, and that most of the others
are down below the surface of the sea. The poor cannot
always reach those whom they want to love, and they
can hardly ever escape from those whom they love no
longer. We rich can. Imagine the tragedy last June if
Helen and Paul Wikox had been poor people and
couldn't invoke railways and motor-cars to part them/'
"That's more like Socialism/' said Mrs. Munt suspi-
ciously.
"Call it what you like. I call it going through life with
one's hand spread open on the table. I'm tired of these
rich people who pretend to be poor, and think it stows
a nke mind to ignore the piles of money that keep their
feet above the waves. I stand each year upon six hun-
dred pounds, and Helen upon the same, and Tibby will
stand upon eight, and as fast as our pounds crumble
away into the sea they are renewed from the sea, yes,
from the sea. And all our thoughts are the thoughts of
six-hundred-pounders, and all our speeches; and be-
cause we don't want to steal umbrellas ourselves, we
forget that below the sea people do want to steal them,
and do steal them sometimes, and that what's a joke up
here is down there reality"
63
"There they go there goes Fraulein Mosebach. Re-
ally, for a German she does dress charmingly. Oh!"
"What is it?"
"Helen was looking up at the Wilcoxes' flat."
"Why shouldn't she?"
"I beg your pardon, I interrupted you. What was it
you were saying about reality?"
"I had worked round to myself, as usual/' answered
Margaret in tones that were suddenly preoccupied.
"Do tell me this, at all events. Are you for the rich or
for the poor?"
"Too difficult. Ask me another. Am I for poverty or
for riches? For riches. Hurrah for riches!"
"For riches!" echoed Mrs. Munt, having, as it were,
at last secured her nut.
"Yes. For riches. Money for ever!"
"So am I, and so, I am afraid, are most of my ac-
quaintances at Swanage, but I am surprised that you
agree with us."
"Thank you so much, Aunt Juley. While I have talked
theories, you have done the flowers."
"Not at all, dear. I wish you would let me help you
in more important things."
"Well, would you be very kind? Would you come
round with me to the registry office? There's a house-
maid who won't say yes but doesn't say no."
On their way thither they too looked up at the Wil-
coxes' flat. Evie was in the balcony, "staring most
rudely," according to Mrs. Munt. Oh yes, it was a nui-
sance, there was no doubt of it. Helen was proof against
a passing encounter, but Margaret began to lose con-
fidence. Might it reawake the dying t nerve if the family
were living close against her eyes? And Frieda Mose-
bach was stopping with them for another fortnight, and
Frieda was sharp, abominably sharp, and quite capable
of remarking: "You love one of the young gentlemen
opposite, yes?" The remark would be untrue, but of the
64
kind which, if stated often enough, may become true;
just as the remark, "England and Germany are bound
to fight/' renders war a little more likely each time that
it is made, and is therefore made the more readily by
the gutter press of either nation. Have the private emo-
tions also their gutter press? Margaret thought so, and
feared that good Aunt Juley and Frieda were typkal
specimens of it. They might, by continual chatter, lead
Helen into a repetition of the desires of June. Into a rep-
etitionthey could not do more; they could not lead
her into lasting love. They were she saw it clearly
Journalism; her father, with all his defects and wrong-
headedness, had been Literature, and had he lived, he
would have persuaded his daughter rightly.
The registry office was holding its morning reception.
A string of carriages filled the streets. Miss Schlegel
waited her turn, and finally had to be content with an
insidious "temporary," being rejected by genuine
housemaids on the ground of her numerous stairs. Her
failure depressed her, and though she forgot the failure,
the depression remained. On her way home she again
glanced up at the Wikoxes' flat, and took the rather ma-
tronly step of speaking about the matter to Helen.
"Helen, you must tell me whether this thing worries
you."
"If what?" said Helen, who was washing her hands
for lunch,
"The W/s coming/'
"No, of course not."
"Really?"
"Really." Then she admitted that she was a littk
worried on Mrs. Wikox's account; she implied that Mrs.
Wikox might reach backward into deep feelings, and be
pained by things that never touched the other members
of that dan. "I shan't mind if Paul points at our house
and says: 'There lives the girt who tried to catch me/
But she might."
"If even that worries you, we could arrange some-
thing. There's no reason we should be near people who
displease us or whom we displease, thanks to our
money. We might even go away for a little."
"Well, I am going away. Frieda's just asked me to
Stettin, and I shan't be back till after the New Year. Will
that do? Or must I fly the country altogether? Really,
Meg, what has come over you to make such a fuss?"
"Oh, I'm getting an old maid, I suppose. I thought I
minded nothing, but really I I should be bored if you
fell in love with the same man twice and" she cleared
her throat "you did go red, you know, when Aunt Ju-
ley attacked you this morning. I shouldn't have referred
to it otherwise."
But Helen's laugh rang true, as she raised, a soapy
hand to heaven and swore that never, nowhere and no-
how, would she again fall in love with any of the Wilcox
family, down to its remotest collaterals.
CHAPTER
8
The friendship between Margaret and Mrs. Wilcox,
which was to develop so quickly and with such strange
results, may perhaps have had its beginnings at Speyer,
in the spring. Perhaps the elder lady, as she gazed at
the vulgar, ruddy cathedral and listened to the talk of
Helen and her husband, may have detected in the other
and less charming of the sisters a deeper sympathy, a
sounder judgment. She was capable of detecting such
things. Perhaps it was she who had desired the Miss
Schlegels to be invited to Howards End, and Margaret
whose presence she had particularly desired. All this is
speculation: Mrs. Wilcox has left few dear indications
66
behind her. It is certain that she came to call at Wickham
Place a fortnight later, the very day that Helen was go-
ing with her cousin to Stettin.
"Helen!" cried Fraulein Mosebach in awestruck tones
(she was now in her cousin's confidence} "his mother
has forgiven you!" And then, remembering that in
England the new-comer ought not to call before she
is called upon, she changed her tone from awe to dis-
approval, and opined that Mrs. Wikox was "keine
Dame."
"Bother the whole family!" snapped Margaret.
"Helen, stop giggling and pirouetting, and go and fin-
ish your packing. Why can't the woman leave us alone?"
"I don't know what I shall do with Meg," Helen re-
torted, collapsing upon the stairs. "She's got Wifcox and
Box upon the brain. Meg, Meg, I don't love the young
gentleman; I don't love the young genterman, Meg,
Meg. Can a body speak plainer?"
"Most certainly her love has died/' asserted Fraulein
Mosebach.
"Most certainly it has, Frieda, but that will not pre-
vent me from being bored with the Wikoxes if I return
the can."
Then Helen simulated tears, and Fraulein Mosebach,
who thought her extremely amusing, did the same.
"Oh, boo hoo! boo hoa hoo! Meg's going to return the
call, and I can't. 'Cos why? 'Cos I'm going to Gaman-
eye."
"If you are going to Germany, go and pack; if ymi
aren't, go and cafl on the Wflcoxes instead of me."
"But, Meg, Meg, I don't love the young gentleman;
I doci't love foe young O lud, who's that coming down
the stairs? I vow 'tis my brother. O crimini!"
A male even such a male as Txbby was eramgh to
stop the foolery. The barrier ot sex, though decreasing
among the civilized, is still high, and higher on the side
of women. Helen could tell her sister all, and her cousin
much about Paul; she told her brother nothing. It was
not prudishness, for she now spoke of "the Wilcox
ideal 7 ' with laughter, and even with a growing brutality.
Nor was it precaution, for Tibby seldom repeated any
news that did not concern himself. It was rather the feel-
ing that she betrayed a secret into the camp of men, and
that, however trivial it was on this side of the barrier, it
would become important on that. So she stopped, or
rather began to fool on other subjects, until her long-
suffering relatives drove her upstairs. Fraulein Mose-
bach followed her, but lingered to say heavily over the
banisters to Margaret: "It is all right she does not love
the young man he has not been worthy of her."
"Yes, I know; thanks very much."
"I thought I did right to tell you."
"Ever so many thanks."
"What's that?" asked Tibby. No one told him, and
he proceeded into the dining-room, to eat Elvas plums.
The evening Margaret took decisive action. The house
was very quiet, and the fog we are in November now
pressed against the windows like an excluded ghost.
Frieda and Helen and all their luggage had gone. Tibby,
who was not feeling well, lay stretched on a sofa by the
fire. Margaret sat by him, thinking. Her mind darted
from impulse to impulse, and finally marshalled them
all in review. The practical person, who knows what he
wants at once, and generally knows nothing else, will
accuse her of indecision. But this was the way her mind
worked. And when she did act, no one could accuse her
of indecision then. She hit out as lustily as if she had
not considered the matter at all. The letter that she wrote
Mrs. Wilcox glowed with the native hue of resolution.
The pale cast of thought was with her a breath rather
than a tarnish, a breath that leaves the colours all the
more vivid when it has been wiped away.
68
Dear Mrs. Wilcox,
I have to write something discourteous. It would
be better if we did not meet. Both my sister and my aunt
have given displeasure to your family, and, in my sister's
case, the grounds for displeasure might recur. As far as I
know, she no longer occupies her thoughts with your son.
But it would not be fair, either to her or to you, if they
met, and it is therefore right that our acquaintance, which
began so pleasantly, should end.
I fear that you will not agree with this; indeed, I
know that you will not, since you ham been good enough
to call on us. It is only an instinct on my part, and no
doubt the instinct is wrong. My sister would, undoubt-
edly, say that it is wrong. 1 write without her knowl-
edge, and I hope that you will not associate her with my
discourtesy.
Believe me,
Yours truly,
M. /. Schlegel
Margaret sent this letter round by the post. Next
morning she received the following reply by hand:
Dear Miss Bchlegel,
You should not have written me such a letter. I
called to tell you that Paul has gone abroad.
Ruth Wilcox
Margaret's cheeks burnt. She could not finish her
breakfast. She was on fire with shame. Helen had told
her that the youth was leaving England, but other things
had seemed more important, and she had forgotten. AM
her absurd anxieties fell to the ground, and in their place
arose the certainty that she had been nide to Mrs. Wil-
cox. Rudeness affected Margaret like a bitter taste in the
mouth. It poisoned life. At times it is necessary, but woe
to those who employ it without due need. She flung on
a hat and shawl, just Hke a poor woman, and plunged
69
into the fog, which still continued. Her lips were com-
pressed, the letter remained in her hand, and in this
state she crossed the street, entered the marble vestibule
of the flats, eluded the concierges, and ran up the stairs
till she reached the second floor.
She sent in her name, and to her surprise was shown
straight into Mrs. Wilcox' s bedroom.
"Oh, Mrs. Wilcox, I have made the baddest blunder.
I am more, more ashamed and sorry than I can say."
Mrs. Wilcox bowed gravely. She was offended, and
did not pretend to the contrary. She was sitting up in
bed, writing letters on an invalid table that spanned her
knees. A breakfast tray was on another table beside her.
The light of the fire, the light from the window, and the
light of a candle-lamp, which threw a quivering halo
round her hands, combined to create a strange atmo-
sphere of dissolution.
"I knew he was going to India in November, but I
forgot."
"He sailed on the 17th for Nigeria, in Africa."
"I knewI know. I have been too absurd all through.
I am very much ashamed."
Mrs. Wilcox did not answer.
"I am more sorry than I can say, and I hope that you
will forgive me."
"It doesn't matter, Miss Schlegel. It is good of you to
have come round so promptly."
"It does matter," cried Margaret. "I have been rude
to you; and my sister is not even at home, so there was
not even that excuse."
"Indeed?"
"She has just gone to Germany."
"She gone as well," murmured the other. "Yes, cer-
tainly, it is quite safe safe, absolutely, now."
" You've been worrying too!" exclaimed Margaret,
getting more and more excited, and taking a chair with-
out invitation. "How perfectly extraordinary! I can see
that you have. You felt as I do; Helen mustn't meet him
again/'
"I did think it best."
"Now why?"
"That's a most difficult question/' said Mrs. Wlkox,
smiling, and a little losing her expression of annoyance.
"I think you put it best in your letterit was an instinct,
whkh may be wrong/'
"It wasn't that your son still"
"Oh no; he often my Paul is very young, you see."
"Then what was it?"
She repeated: "An instinct which may be wrong."
"In other words, they belong to types that can fall in
love, but couldn't live together. That's dreadfully prob-
able. I'm afraid that in nine cases out of ten Nature pulls
one way and human nature another."
"These are indeed 'other words/ " said Mrs. Wikox.
"I had nothing so coherent in rny head, I was merely
alarmed when I knew that my boy cared for your sis-
ter."
"Ah, I have always been wanting to ask you, How
did you know? Helen was so surprised when our aunt
drove up, and you stepped forward and arranged things.
Did Paul teD you?"
"There is nothing to be gained by discussing that/'
said Mrs. Wflcox after a moment's pause.
"Mrs. Wikox, were you very angry with us last June?
I wrote you a letter and you didn't answer it."
"I was certainly against taking Mrs, Matheson's flat.
I knew it was opposite your house/'
'But it's all right IKJW?"
"I think so."
"You only think? You aren't sure? I do love these
little muddles tidied up."
"Oh yes, I'm sure/' said Mrs. Wikox, moving with
uneasiness beneath the dothes. "I always sound uncer-
tain over things. It is my way erf speaking."
7*
"That's all right, and I'm sure too/'
Here the maid came in to remove the breakfast tray.
They were interrupted, and when they resumed con-
versation, it was on more normal lines.
"I must say good-bye nowyou will be getting up."
"No please stop a little longerI am taking a day in
bed. Now and then I do."
"I thought of you as one of the early risers."
"At Howards End yes; there is nothing to get up for
in London."
"Nothing to get up for?" cried the scandalized Mar-
garet. "When there are all the autumn exhibitions, and
Ysaye playing in the afternoon! Not to mention peo-
ple."
"The truth is, I am a little tired. First came the wed-
ding, and then Paul went off, and, instead of resting
yesterday, I paid a round of calls."
"A wedding?"
"Yes; Charles, my elder son, is married."
"Indeed!"
"We took the flat chiefly on that account, and also
that Paul could get his African outfit. The flat belongs to
a cousin of my husband's, and she most kindly offered
it to us. So before the day came we were able to make
the acquaintance of Dolly's people, which we had not
yet done."
Margaret asked who Dolly's people were.
"Fussell. The father is in the Indian army retired;
the brother is in the army. The mother is dead/ 7
So perhaps these were the "chinless sunburnt men"
whom Helen had espied one afternoon through the win-
dow. Margaret felt mildly interested in the fortunes of
the Wilcox family. She had acquired the habit on Hel-
en's account, and it still clung to her. She asked for
more information about Miss Dolly Fussell that was, and
was given it in even, unemotional tones. Mrs. Wilcox's
voice, though sweet and compelling, had little range of
expression. It suggested that pictures, concerts, and
people are all of small and equal value. Only once had
it quickened when speaking of Howards End.
"Charles and Albert Fussell have known one another
some time. They belong to the same club, and are both
devoted to golf. Dolly plays golf too, though I believe
not so well, and they first met in a mixed foursome. We
all like her, and are very much pleased. They were mar-
ried on the llth, a few days before Paul sailed. Charles
was very anxious to have his brother as best man, so he
made a great point of having it on the llth. The FusseEs
would have preferred it after Christmas, but they were
very nice about it. There is Dolly's photograph in that
double frame/'
"Are you quite certain that I'm not interrupting, Mrs.
Wilcox?"
"Yes, quite."
"Then I will stay. I'm enjoying this/'
Dolly's photograph was now examined. It was signed
"For dear Mims," which Mrs. Wikox interpreted as "the
name she and Charles had settled that she should caU
me/' Dolly looked silly, and had one of those triangular
faces that so often prove attractive to a robust man. She
was very pretty. From her Margaret passed to Charles,
whose features prevailed opposite. She speculated on
the forces that had drawn the two together tiU God
parted them. She found time to hope that they wotdd
be happy.
"They have gone to Naples for their honeymoon/'
"Lucky people!"
"I can hardly imagine Charles in Italy/*
"Doesn't he care for traveling?"
"He likes travel, but he does see through foreigners
so. What he enjoys most is a motor tour in England, and
I think that would have carried the day if the weather
had not been so abominable. His father gave him a car
of his own for a wedding present, which for the present
is being stored at Howards End."
"I suppose you have a garage there?"
"Yes. My husband built a little one only last month,
to the west of the house, not far from the wych-elm, in
what used to be the paddock for the pony."
The last words had an indescribable ring about them.
"Where's the pony gone?" asked Margaret after a
pause.
"The pony? Oh, dead, ever so long ago."
"The wych-elm I remember. Helen spoke of it as a
very splendid tree."
"It is the finest wych-elm in Hertfordshire. Did your
sister tell you about the teeth?"
"No."
"Oh, it might interest you. There are pigs' teeth stuck
into the trunk, about four feet from the ground. The
country people put them in long ago, and they think
that if they chew a piece of the bark, it will cure the
toothache. The teeth are almost grown over now, and
no one comes to the tree."
"I should. I love folklore and all festering supersti-
tions."
"Do you think that the tree really did cure toothache,
if one believed in it?"
"Of course it did. It would cure anything once."
"Certainly I remember cases you see, I lived at
Howards End long, long before Mr. Wilcox knew it. I
was born there."
The conversation again shifted. A*t the time it seemed
little more than aimless chatter. She was interested when
her hostess explained that Howards End was her own
property. She was bored when too minute an account
was given of the Fussell family, of the anxieties of
Charles concerning Naples, of the movements of Mr.
Wilcox and Evie, who were motoring in Yorkshire. Mar-
74
garet could not bear being bored. She grew inattentive,
played with the photograph frame, dropped it, smashed
Dolly's glass, apologized, was pardoned, cut her finger
thereon, was pitied, and finally said she must be going-
there was all the housekeeping to do, and she had to
interview Tibby's riding-master.
Then the curious note was struck again.
''Good-bye, Miss Schlegel, good-bye. Thank you for
coming. You have cheered me up."
"I'm so glad!"
"I I wonder whether you ever think about your-
self."
"I think of nothing else/' said Margaret, blushing,
but letting her hand remain in that of the invalid.
"I wonder. I wonder at Heidelberg,"
"I'm sure!"
"I almost think"
"Yes?" asked Margaret, for there was a long pause
a pause that was somehow akin to the flicker erf the fire,
the quiver of the reading-lamp upon -their hands, the
white blur from the window; a pause of shifting and
eternal shadows.
"I almost think you forget you're a gjri/*
Margaret was startled and a little annoyed. "I'm
twenty-nine/' she remarked. "That's not so wildly girl-
ish/'
Mrs. Wifcox smiled,
"What makes you say that? Do you mean that I have
been gauche and rude?"
A shake of the head. "I only meant that I am fifty-
one, and that to me both of you Read it all in some
book or other; I cannot put things deariy/'
"Oh, I've got it inexperience. I'm no better than
Helen, you mean, and yet I presume to advise her."
"Yes. You have got it. Inexperience is the word."
"Inexperience/' repeated Margaret, in serkxts yet
buoyant tones. "Of course, I have everything to learn
absolutely everythingjust as much as Helen. Life's
very difficult and full of surprises. At all events, I've got
as far as that. To be humble and kind, to go straight
ahead, to love people rather than pity them, to remem-
ber the submerged well, one can't do all these things
at once, worse luck, because they're so contradictory.
It's then that proportion comes in to live by propor-
tion. Don't begin with proportion. Only prigs do that.
Let proportion come in as a last resource, when the bet-
ter things have failed, and a deadlock Gracious me,
I've started preaching!"
"Indeed, you put the difficulties of life splendidly,"
said Mrs. Wilcox withdrawing her hand in the deeper
shadows. "It is just what I should have liked to say
about them myself."
CHAPTER
9
Mrs. Wilcox cannot be accused of giving Margaret much
information about life. And Margaret, on the other hand,
has made a fair show of modesty, and has pretended to
an inexperience that she certainly did not feel. She had
kept house for over ten years; she had entertained, al-
most with distinction; she had brought up a charming
sister, and was bringing up a brother. Surely, if experi-
ence is attainable, she had attained it.
Yet the little luncheon-party that she gave in Mrs.
Wilcox' s honour was not a success. The new friend did
not blend with the "one or two delightful people" who
had been asked to meet her, and the atmosphere was
one of polite bewilderment. Her tastes were simple, her
knowledge of culture slight, and she was not interested
in the New English Art dub, nor in the dividing-line
between Journalism and Literature, which was started
76
as a conversational hare. The delightful people darted
after it with cries of }oy, Margaret leading them, and not
till the meal was half over did they realize that the prin-
cipal guest had taken no part in the chase. There was
no common topic. Mrs. Wilcox, whose life had been
spent in the service of husband and sons, had little to
say to strangers who had never shared it, and whose
age was half her own. Clever talk alarmed her, and
withered her delicate imaginings; it was the social coun-
terpart of a motor-car, all jerks, and she was a wisp of
hay, a flower. Twice she deplored the weather, twke
criticized the train service on the Great Northern Rail-
way. They vigorously assented, and rushed on, and
when she inquired whether there was any news of
Helen, her hostess was too much occupied in placing
Rothenstein to answer. The question was repeated: "I
hope that your sister is safe in Germany by now." Mar-
garet checked herself and said: "Yes, thank you; 1 heard
on Tuesday." But the demon of vociferation was in her,
and the next moment she was off again.
"Only on Tuesday, for they live right away at Stettin.
Did you ever know any one living at Stettin?"
"Never," said Mrs. Wikox gravely, while her neigh-
bour, a young man low down in the Education Office,
began to discuss what people who lived at Stettin ought
to look like. Was there such a thing as Stettininity? Mar-
garet swept on.
"People at Stettin drop things into boats out of over-
hanging warehouses. At least, our cousins do, but aren't
particularly rich. The town isn't interesting, except for a
dock that rolls its eyes, and the view erf the Oder, which
truly is something special. Oh, Mrs. Wikox, you would
love the Oder! The river, or rather rivers there seem to
be dozens of them are intense blue, and the plain they
run through an intensest green."
"Indeed! That sounds like a most beautiful view, Miss
SchlegeL"
77
"So I say, but Helen, who will muddle things, says
no, it's like music. The course of the Oder is to be like
music. It's obliged to remind her of a symphonic poem.
The part by the landing-stage is in B minor, if I remem-
ber rightly, but lower down things get extremely mixed.
There is a slodgy theme in several keys at once, meaning
mud-banks, and another for the navigable canal, and
the exit into the Baltic is in C sharp major, pianissimo."
''What do the overhanging warehouses make of
that?" asked the man, laughing.
"They make a great deal of it," replied Margaret, un-
expectedly rushing off on a new track. "I think it's af-
fectation to compare the Oder to music, and so do you,
but the overhanging warehouses of Stettin take beauty
seriously, which we don't, and the average Englishman
doesn't, and despises all who do. Now don't say, 'Ger-
mans have no taste/ or I shall scream. They haven't.
But but such a tremendous but! they take poetry se-
riously. They do take poetry seriously."
"Is anything gained by that?"
"Yes, yes. The German is always on the lookout for
beauty. He may miss it through stupidity, or misinter-
pret it, but he is always asking beauty to enter his life,
and I believe that in the end it will come. At Heidelberg
I met a fat veterinary surgeon whose voice broke with
sobs as he repeated some mawkish poetry. So easy for
me to laugh I, who never repeat poetry good, or bad,
and cannot remember one fragment of verse to thrill my-
self with. My blood boils well, I'm half German, so put
it down to patriotism when I listen to the tasteful con-
tempt of the average islander for things Teutonic,
whether they're Bocklin or my veterinary surgeon. 'Oh,
Bocklin/ they say; 'he strains after beauty, he peoples
Nature with gods too consciously/ Of course Bocklin
strains, because he wants something beauty and all the
other intangible gifts that are floating about the world.
So his landscapes don't come off, and Leader's do."
"1 am not sure that I agree. Do you?" said he, turning
to Mrs. Wilcox.
She replied: "I think Miss Schlegel puts everything
splendidly"; and a chill fell on the conversation,
"Oh, Mrs. Wilcox, say something nker than that. It's
such a snub to be told you put things splendidly."
"I do not mean it as a snub. Your last speech inter-
ested me so much. Generally people do not seem quite
to like Germany. 1 have long wanted to hear what is said
on the other side/'
"The other side? Then you do disagree, Oh, good!
Give us your side/'
"I have no side. But my husband" her voke soft-
ened, the chill increased "has very little faith in the
Continent, and our children have aU taken after him/*
"On what grounds? Do they feel that the Continent
is in bad form?"
Mrs. Wilcox had no idea; she paid little attention to
grounds. She was not intellectual, nor even alert, and it
was odd that, all the same, she should give the idea erf
greatness. Margaret, zig-zagging with her friends over
Thought and Art, was conscious of a personality that
transcended their own and dwarfed their activities.
There was no bitterness in Mrs. Wikox; there was not
even criticism; she was lovable, and no ungracious or
uncharitable word had passed her lips. Yet she and daily
life were out of focus: one or the other must show
blurred. And at lunch she seemed more out of focus
than usual, and nearer the line that divides daily life
from a life that may be erf greater importance.
'You will admit, though, that the Continent it seems
silly to speak of 'the Continent/ but really it is all more
like itself than any part of it is like England. England is
unique. Do have another jelly first. 1 was going to say
that the Continent, for good or for evil, is interested in
ideas. Its literature and art have what one might call the
kink of the unseen about them, and this persists even
79
through decadence and affectation. There is more liberty
of action in England, but for liberty of thought go to
bureaucratic Prussia. People will there discuss with hu-
mility vital questions that we here think ourselves too
good to touch with tongs/'
"I do not want to go to Prussia/' said Mrs. Wilcox
"not even to see that interesting view that you were
describing. And for discussing with humility I am too
old. We never discuss anything at Howards End."
"Then you ought to!" said Margaret. "Discussion
keeps a house alive. It cannot stand by bricks and mor-
tar alone."
"It cannot stand without them," said Mrs. Wilcox,
unexpectedly catching on to the thought, and rousing,
for the first and last time, a faint hope in the breasts of
the delightful people. "It cannot stand without them,
and I sometimes think But I cannot expect your gen-
eration to agree, for even my daughter disagrees with
me here."
"Never mind us or her. Do say!"
"I sometimes think that it is wise to leave action and
discussion to men."
There was a little silence.
"One admits that the arguments against the suffrage
are extraordinarily strong," said a girl opposite, leaning
forward and crumbling her bread.
"Are they? I never follow any arguments. I am only
too thankful not to have a vote myself."
"We didn't mean the vote, though, did we?" sup-
plied Margaret. "Aren't we differing on something much
wider, Mrs. Wilcox? Whether women are to remain what
they have been since the dawn of history; or whether,
since men have moved forward so far, they too may
move forward a little now. I say they may. I would even
admit a biological change."
"I don't know, I don't know."
"I must be getting back to my overhanging ware-
So
house/' said the man. "They've turned disgracefully
strict/'
Mrs. Wiicox also rose.
"Oh, but come upstairs for a little, Miss Quested
plays. Do you like MacDowell? Do you mind him only
having two noises? If you must really go, I'll see you
out. Won't you even have coffee?"
They left the dining-room, closing the door behind
them, and as Mrs. Wiicox buttoned up her jacket, she
said: "What an interesting life you all lead in London! "
"No, we don't/' said Margaret, with a sudden re-
vulsion. "We lead the lives of gibbering monkeys, Mrs.
Wiicox really We have something quiet and stable at
the bottom. We really have. All my friends have. Don't
pretend you enjoyed lunch, for you loathed it, but for-
give me by coming again, alone, or by asking nte to
you/'
"I am used to young people/' said Mrs, Wiicox, and
with each word she spoke, the outlines of known things
grew dim, "I hear a great deal of chatter at home, for
we, like you, entertain a great deal. With us it is more
sport and politics, but I enjoyed my lunch very much,
Miss Schlegel, dear, and am not pretending, and only
wish I could have joined in more. For one thing, I'm not
particularly well just today. For another, you younger
people move so qukkly that it dazes me. Charles is the
same, DoUy the same. But we are all in the same boat,
old and young. I never forget that."
They were silent for a moineftt. Then, with a newborn
emotion, they shook hands. The conversation ceased
suddenly when Margaret re-entered the dming-room:
her friexKls had been talking over her new fne**4 and
had dismissed her as uninteresting.
CHAPTER
10
Several days passed.
Was Mrs. Wilcox one of the unsatisfactory people-
there are many of them who dangle intimacy and then
withdraw it? They evoke our interests and affections,
and keep the life of the spirit dawdling round them.
Then they withdraw. When physical passion is in-
volved, there is a definite name for such behaviour-
flirting and if carried far enough, it is punishable by
law. But no law not public opinion, even punishes
those who coquette with friendship, though the dull
ache that they inflict, the sense of misdirected effort and
exhaustion, may be as intolerable. Was she one of these?
Margaret feared so at first, for, with a Londoner's im-
patience, she wanted everything to be settled up im-
mediately. She mistrusted the periods of quiet that are
essential to true growth. Desiring to book Mrs. Wilcox
as a friend, she pressed on the ceremony, pencil, as it
were, in hand, pressing the more because the rest of the
family were away and the opportunity seemed favour-
able. But the elder woman would not be hurried. She
refused to fit in with the Wickham Place set, or to re-
open discussion of Helen and Paul, whom Margaret
would have utilized as a short-cut. She took her time,
or perhaps let time take her, and when the crisis did
come all was ready.
The crisis opened with a message: would Miss Schle-
gel come shopping? Christmas was nearing, and Mrs.
Wilcox felt behind-hand with the presents. She had
taken some more days in bed, and must make up for
lost time. Margaret accepted, and at eleven o'clock one
cheerless morning they started out in a brougham.
82
"First of all/' began Margaret, "we must make a list
and tick off the people's names. My aunt always does,
and this fog may thkken up any moment. Have you any
ideas?"
"I thought we would go to Harrod's or the Haymar-
ket Stores/' said Mrs. Wikox rather hopelessly. "Every-
thing is sure to be there. I am not a good shopper. The
din is so confusing, and your aunt is quite right one
ought to make a list. Take my notebook, then, and write
your own name at the top of the page/'
"Oh, hooray!" said Margaret, writing it. "How very
kind of you to start with me!" But she did not want to
receive anything expensive. Their acquaintance was sin-
gular rather than intimate, and she divined that the Wil-
cox clan would resent any expenditure on outsiders; the
more compact families do. She did not want to be
thought a second Helen, who would snatch presents
since she could not snatch young men, nor to be ex-
posed, like a second Aunt Juley, to the insults of Charles,
A certain austerity of demeanour was best, and she
added: "I don't really want a Yuletide gift, though. In
fact, I'd rather not."
"Why?"
"Because I've odd ideas about Christmas. Because I
have all that money can buy. I want more people, but
no more things."
"I should like to give you something worth your ac-
quaintance, Miss Schfegd, in memory erf your kindness
to me during my lonely fortnight. It has so happened
that I have been left alone, and you have stopped me
from brooding. I am too apt to btood."
"If that is so," said Margaiet, "if I have happened to
be of use to you, which I didn't know, you cannot pay
me back with anything tangible/'
"I suppose not, but one wotild like to. Perhaps I shaU
think of something as we go about/'
Her name remained at the head of the list, but noth-
83
ing was written opposite it. They drove from shop to
shop. The air was white, and when they alighted it
tasted like cold pennies. At times they passed through
a clot of grey. Mrs. Wilcox's vitality was low that morn-
ing, and it was Margaret who decided on a horse for
this little girl, a golliwog for that, for the rector's wife a
copper warming-tray. "We always give the servants
money." "Yes, do you, yes, much easier," replied Mar-
garet, but felt the grotesque impact of the unseen upon
the seen, and saw issuing from a forgotten manger at
Bethlehem this torrent of coins and toys. Vulgarity
reigned. Public-houses, besides their usual exhortation
against temperance reform, invited men to "Join our
Christmas goose club" one bottle of gin, etc., or two,
according to subscription. A poster of a woman in tights
heralded the Christmas pantomime, and little red devils,
who had come in again that year, were prevalent upon
the Christmas-cards. Margaret was no morbid idealist.
She did not wish this spate of business and self-adver-
tisement checked. It was only the occasion of it that
struck her with amazement annually. How many of
these vacillating shoppers and tired shop-assistants re-
alized that it was a divine event that drew them to-
gether? She realized it, though standing outside in the
matter. She was not a Christian in the accepted sense;
she did not believe that God had ever worked among
us as a young artisan. These people, or most of them,
believed it, and if pressed, would affirm it in words. But
the visible signs of their belief were Regent Street or
Drury Lane, a little mud displaced, a little money spent,
a little food cooked, eaten, and forgotten. Inadequate.
But in public who shall express the unseen adequately?
It is private life that holds out the mirror to infinity; per-
sonal intercourse, and that alone, that ever hints at a
personality beyond our daily vision.
"No, I do like Christmas on the whole," she an-
nounced. "In its clumsy way, it does approach Peace
and Goodwill. But oh / it is clumsier every year/'
"Is it? I am only used to country Christmases/*
"We are usually in London, and play the game with
vigour carols at the Abbey, clumsy midday meal,
clumsy dinner for the maids, followed by Christmas-tree
and dancing of poor children, with songs from Helen.
The drawing-room does very well for that. We put the
tree in the powder-closet, and draw a curtain when the
candles are lighted, and with the looking-glass behind,
it looks quite pretty. I wish we might have a powder-
closet in our next house. Of course, the tree has to be
very small, and the presents don't hang on it. No; the
presents reside in a sort of rocky landscape made of
crumpled brown paper."
"You spoke of your 'next house/ Miss SchlegeL Then
are you leaving Wickham Place?"
"Yes, in two or three years, when the lease expires.
We must."
"Have you been there long?"
"All our lives/'
"You will be very sorry to leave it."
"I suppose so. We scarcely realize it yet, My fa-
ther" She broke off, for they had reached the statio-
nery department of the Haymarket Stores, and Mrs.
Wilcox wanted to order some private greeting-cards,
"If possible, something distinctive/' she sighed. At
the counter she found a friend, bent on the same errand,
and conversed with her insipidly, wasting much time,
"My husband and our daughter are motoring/*
"Bertha too? Oh, fancy, what a coiiKkiei^ce!" Mar-
garet, though not practical, could shine in such com-
pany as this. While they talked, she went through a
volume of specimen cards, and submitted one for Mrs.
Wilcox's inspection. Mrs, Wilcox was delighted so
original, words so sweet; she would order a hundred
like that, and could never be sufficiently grateful. Then,
just as the assistant was booking the order, she said:
"Do you know, I'll wait. On second thoughts, I'll wait.
There's plenty of time still, isn't there, and I shall be
able to get Evie's opinion/'
They returned to the carriage by devious paths; when
they were in, she said: "But couldn't you get it re-
newed?"
"I beg your pardon?" asked Margaret.
"The lease, I mean."
"Oh, the lease! Have you been thinking of that all
the time? How very kind of you!"
"Surely something could be done."
"No; values have risen too enormously. They mean
to pull down Wickham Place, and build flats like yours."
"But how horrible!"
"Landlords are horrible."
Then she said vehemently: "It is monstrous, Miss
Schlegel; it isn't right. I had no idea that this was hang-
ing over you. I do pity you from the bottom of my heart.
To be parted from your house, your father's house it
oughtn't to be allowed. It is worse than dying. I would
rather die than Oh, poor girls! Can what they call civ-
ilization be right, if people mayn't die in the room where
they were born? My dear, I am so sorry"
Margaret did not know what to say. Mrs. Wilcox had
been overtired by the shopping, and was inclined to
hysteria.
"Howards End was nearly pulled down once. It
would have killed me."
"Howards End must be a very different house to ours.
We are fond of ours, but there is nothing distinctive
about it. As you saw, it is an ordinary London house.
We shall easily find another."
"So you think."
"Again my lack of experience, I suppose!" said Mar-
garet, easing away from the subject. "I can't say any-
86
thing when you take up that line, Mm. Wikox. I wish I
could see myself as you see me foreshortened into a
backfisch. Quite the ingenue. Very charming wonder-
fully weU read for my age, but incapable"
Mrs. Wikox would not be deterred. "Come down
with me to Howards End now/' she said, more vehe-
mently than ever. "I want you to see it. You have never
seen it. I want to hear what you say about it, for you do
put things so wonderfully."
Margaret glanced at the pitiless air and then at the
tired face of her companion. "Later on I should love H,"
she continued, "but it's hardly the weather for such an
expedition, and we ought to start when we're fresh. Isn't
the house shut up, too?"
She received no answer. Mrs. Wilcox appeared to be
annoyed.
"Might I come some other day?"
Mrs. Wikox bent forward and tapped the glass, "Back
to Wkkham Place, please!" was her order to the coach-
man. Margaret had been snubbed.
"A thousand thanks, Miss Schlegel, for all your
help."
"Not at an."
"It is such a comfort to get the presents off my mind
the Christinas-cards especially. I do admire your
choke."
It was her turn to receive no answer. In her turn Mar-
garet became annoyed,
"My husband and Evie will be back the day after to-
morrow. That is why I dragged yon out shopping today.
I stayed in town chiefly to shop, but got thiwigh loath-
ing, and now he writes that they must cut their tour
short, the weather is so bad, and the police-traps have
been so bad nearly as bad as in Surrey. Ours is such a
careful chauffetrr, and my husband feels it particularly
hard that they should be treated like roadhogs."
"Why?"
37
"Well, naturally he he isn't a road-hog."
"He was exceeding the speed-limit, I conclude. He
must expect to suffer with the lower animals."
Mrs, Wilcox was silenced. In growing discomfort they
drove homewards. They city seemed Satanic, the nar-
rower streets oppressing like the galleries of a mine. No
harm was done by the fog to trade, for it lay high, and
the lighted windows of the shops were thronged with
customers. It was rather a darkening of the spirit which
fell back upon itself, to find a more grievous darkness
within. Margaret nearly spoke a dozen times, but some-
thing throttled her. She felt petty and awkward, and her
meditations on Christmas grew more cynical. Peace? It
may bring other gifts, but is there a single Londoner to
whom Christmas is peaceful? The craving for excitement
and for elaboration has ruined that blessing. Goodwill?
Had she seen any example of it in the hordes of pur-
chasers? Or in herself? She had failed to respond to this
invitation merely because it was a little queer and imag-
inativeshe, whose birthright it was to nourish imagi-
nation! Better to have accepted, to have tired themselves
a little by the journey, than coldly to reply: "Might I
come some other day?" Her cynicism left her. There
would be no other day. This shadowy woman would
never ask her again.
They parted at the Mansions. Mrs. Wilcox went in
after due civilities, and Margaret watched the tall, lonely
figure sweep up the hall to the lift. As the glass doors
dosed on it she had the sense of an imprisonment. The
beautiful head disappeared first, still buried in the muff;
the long trailing skirt followed. A woman of undefinable
rarity was going up heavenwards, like a specimen in a
bottle. And into what a heavy a vault as of hell, sooty
black, from which soots descended!
At lunch her brother, seeing her inclined for silence,
insisted on talking. Tibby was not ill-natured, but from
babyhood something drove him to do the unwelcome
aa
and the unexpected. Now he gave her a long account of
the day-school that he sometimes patronized. The ac-
count was interesting, and she had often pressed him
for it before, but she could not attend now, for her mind
was focussed on the invisible. She discerned that Mrs.
Wilcox, though a loving wife and mother, had only one
passion in life her house and that the moment was
solemn when she invited a friend to share this passion
with her. To answer "another day" was to answer as a
fool. "Another day" will do for brick and mortar, but
not for the Holy of Holies into whkh Howards End had
been transfigured. Her own curiosity was slight She had
heard more than enough about it in the summer. The
nine windows, the vine, and the wych-elm had no
pleasant connections for her, and she would have pre-
ferred to spend the afternoon at a concert. But imagi-
nation triumphed. While her brother held forth she
determined to go, at whatever cost, and to compel Mrs,
Wilcox to go, too. When lunch was over, she stepped
over to the flats.
Mrs. Wikox had just gone away for the night.
Margaret said that it was of no consequence* hurried
downstairs, and took a hansom to King's Cross. She
was convinced that the escapade was important, though
it would have puzzled her to say why. There was a
question of imprisonment and escape, and though she
did not know the time of the train, she strained her eyes
for the St. Paneras dock.
Then the dock erf King's Cross swung into sight, a
second moon in that infernal sky, and her cab diew up
at the station. There was a train for Hilton in five min-
utes. She took a ticket, asking in her agitation for a sin*
gle. As she did so, a grave and happy voke saluted her
and thanked her.
"I will come if I still may," said Margaret, laughing
nervously.
"You are coming to sleep, dear, too. It is in the niorn-
39
ing that my house is most beautiful. You are coming to
stop. I cannot show you my meadow properly except at
sunrise. These fogs" she pointed at the station roof
"never spread far. I dare say they are sitting in the sun
in Hertfordshire, and you will never repent joining
them."
"I shall never repent joining you."
"It is the same."
They began the walk up the long platform. Far at its
end stood the train, breasting the darkness without.
They never reached it. Before imagination could tri-
umph, there were cries of "Mother! Mother!" and a
heavy-browed girl darted out of the cloak-room and
seized Mrs. Wilcox by the arm.
"Evie!" she gasped. "Evie, my pet"
The girl called: "Father! I say! look who's here."
"Evie, dearest girl, why aren't you in Yorkshire?"
"No motor smash changed plans Father's com-
ing."
"Why, Ruth!" cried Mr. Wilcox, joining them. "What
in the name of all that's wonderful are you doing here,
Ruth?"
Mrs. Wilcox had recovered herself.
"Oh, Henry dear! here's a lovely surprise but let
me introduce but I think you know Miss Schlegel."
"Oh, yes," he replied, not greatly interested. "But
how's yourself, Ruth?"
"Fit as a fiddle," she answered gaily.
"So are we and so was our car, which ran A-i as far
as Ripon, but there a wretched horse and cart which a
fool of a driver"
"Miss Schlegel, our little outing must be for another
day."
"I was saying that this fool of a driver, as the police-
man himself admits"
"Another day, Mrs. Wilcox. Of course."
90
as we've insured against third-party risks, it
won't so much matter"
"Cart and car being practically at right angles'*
The voices of the happy family rose high, Margaret
was left alone. No one wanted her, Mrs, WOcox walked
out of King's Cross between her husband and her
daughter, listening to both of them,
CHAPTER
1 1
The funeral was over. The carriages rolled away through
the soft mud, and only the poor remained. They ap-
proached to the newly dug shaft and looked their last at
the coffin, now almost hidden beneath the spadefub of
clay. It was their moment. Most of them were women
from the dead woman's district, to whom Hack gar-
ments had been served out by Mr. Wikox's orders. Pure
curiosity had brought others. They thrived with the ex-
citement of a death, and of a rapid death, and stood in
groups or moved between the graves, like drops of ink.
The son of one of them, a wood-cutter, was perched
high above their heads, pollarding one erf the church-
yard elms. From where he sat he could see the village
of Hilton, strung upon the North Road, with its accret-
ing suburbs; the sunset beyond, scarlet and orange,
winking at hmt beneath brows of grey; the church; the
plantations; and behind Mm an unspoilt country of fields
and farms. But he, too, was rolling the event hixujiously
in his mouth. He tried to tell his mother down below all
that he had felt when he saw the coffin approaching;
how he could not leave his work, and yet did not like
to go on with it; how he had almost slipped out of the
tree, he was so upset; the rooks had cawed, and no
wonder it was as if rooks knew too. His mother claimed
the prophetic power herself she had seen a strange look
about Mrs. Wilcox for some time. London had done the
mischief, said others. She had been a kind lady; her
grandmother had been kind, too a plainer person, but
very kind. Ah, the old sort was dying out! Mr. Wilcox,
he was a kind gentleman. They advanced to the topic
again and again, dully, but with exaltation. The funeral
of a rich person was to them what the funeral of Alces-
tis, of Ophelia, is to the educated. It was Art; though
remote from life, it enhanced life's values, and they wit-
nessed it avidly.
The grave-diggers, who had kept up an undercurrent
of disapproval they disliked Charles; it was not a mo-
ment to speak of such things, but they did not like
Charles Wilcox the grave-diggers finished their work
and piled up the wreaths and crosses above it. The sun
set over Hilton: the grey brows of the evening flushed
a little, and were cleft with one scarlet frown. Chattering
sadly to each other, the mourners passed through the
lych-gate and traversed the chestnut avenues that led
down to the village. The young wood-cutter stayed a
little longer, posed above the silence and swaying rhyth-
mically. At last the bough fell beneath his saw. With a
grunt, he descended, his thoughts dwelling no longer
on death, but on love, for he was mating. He stopped
as he passed the new grave; a sheaf of tawny chrysan-
themums had caught his eye. "They didn't ought to
have coloured flowers at buryings," he reflected. Trudg-
ing on a few steps, he stopped again, looked furtively
at the dusk, turned back, wrenched a chrysanthemum
from the sheaf, and hid it in his pocket.
After him came silence absolute. The cottage that
abutted on the churchyard was empty, and no other
house stood near. Hour after hour the scene of the in-
terment remained without an eye to witness it. Clouds
drifted over it from the west; or the church may have
been a ship, high-prowed, steering with all its company
towards infinity. Towards morning the air grew colder,
the sky dearer, the surface of the earth hard and spar-
kling above the prostrate dead. The wood-cutter, return-
ing after a night of joy, reflected: "They lilies, they
chrysants; it's a pity I didn't take them all/'
Up at Howards End they were attempting breakfast,
Charles and Evie sat in the dining-room, with Mrs.
Charles. Their father, who could not bear to see a face,
breakfasted upstairs. He suffered acutely. Pain came
over him in spasms, as if it was physical, and even while
he was about to eat, his eyes would fill with tears* and
he would lay down the morsel untasted.
He remembered his wife's even goodness during
thirty years. Not anything in detail not courtship or
early rapturesbut just the unvarying virtue, that
seemed to him a woman's noblest quality. So many
women are capricious, breaking into odd flaws of pas-
sion or frivolity. Not so his wife. Year after year, sum-
mer and winter, as bride and mother, she had been the
same, he had always trusted her. Her tenderness! Her
irmocenceS The wonderful innocence that was hers by
the gift of God. Ruth knew no more of worldly wkked-
ness and wisdom than did the flowers in her garden or
the grass in her field. Her idea of business "Henry,
why do people who have enough money try to get more
money?" Her idea of politics "I am sure that if the
mothers of various natkms could meet, there would be
no more wars/' Her idea of religion ah, this had been
a doud, but a cloud that passed. She came of Quaker
stock, and he and his family, formerly Dissenters, were
now members erf the Church of England. The rector's
sermons had at first repelled her, and she had expressed
a desire for "a more inward light," adding: *'iK>t so
much for myself as for baby" (Charles). Inward light
must have been granted, for he heard no complaints in
later years. They brought up their three children with-
out dispute. They had never disputed.
She lay under the earth now. She had gone, and as
if to make her going the more bitter, had gone with a
touch of mystery that was all unlike her. "Why didn't
you tell me you knew of it?" he had moaned, and her
faint voice had answered: "I didn't want to, Henry I
might have been wrong and every one hates ill-
nesses." He had been told of the horror by a strange
doctor, whom she had consulted during his absence
from town. Was this altogether just? Without fully ex-
plaining, she had died. It was a fault on her part, and
tears rushed into his eyes what a little fault! It was
the only time she had deceived him in those thirty
years.
He rose to his feet and looked out of the window, for
Evie had come in with the letters, and he could meet no
one's eye. Ah yes she had been a good woman she
had been steady. He chose the word deliberately. To
him steadiness included all praise.
He himself, gazing at the wintry garden, was in ap-
pearance a steady man. His face was not as square as
his son's, and, indeed, the chin, though firm enough in
outline, retreated a little, and the lips, ambiguous, were
curtained by a moustache. But there was no external hint
of weakness. The eyes, if capable of kindness and good-
fellowship, if ruddy for the moment with tears, were the
eyes of one who could not be driven. The forehead, too,
was like Charles's. High and straight, brown and pol-
ished, merging abruptly into temples and skull, it had
the effect of a bastion that protected his head from the
world. At times it had the effect of a blank wall. He had
dwelt behind it, intact and happy, for fifty years.
"The post's come, Father," said Evie awkwardly.
"Thanks. Put it down."
94
"Has the breakfast been ail right?"
"Yes, thanks/-
The girl glanced at him and at it with constraint. She
did not know what to do.
"Charles says do you want the Times?*'
"No, FU read it later."
"Ring if you want anything, Father, won't you?"
"I've all 1 want."
Having sorted the letters from the circulars, she went
back to the dining-room.
"Father's eaten nothing," she announced, sitting
down with wrinkled brows behind the tea-urn.
Charles did not answer, but after a moment he ran
quickly upstairs, opened the door, and said; "Look here,
Father, you must eat, you know"; and having paused
for a reply that did not come, stole down again, "He's
going to read his letters first, I think/' he said evasively;
"I dare say he will go on with his breakfast afterwards/'
Then he took up the Times, and for some time there was
no sound except the clink of cup against saucer and of
knife on plate.
Poor Mrs. Charles sat between her silent companions,
terrified at the course erf events, and a little bored. She
was a rubbishy little creature, and she knew it. A tele-
gram had draped her from Naples to the deathbed erf
a woman whom she had scarcely known. A word from
her husband had plunged fast into motirning. She de-
sired to mourn inwardly as weH, but she wished that
Mrs. Wifcox, since fated to die, cotdd have died before
the marriage, for then less would have been expected erf
her. Grumbling her toas*, and too nervous to ask for the
butter, she remained almost motionless, thankful only
for this, her father-in-law was having his breakfast up-
stairs.
At last Charies spoke. "They had no business to be
pollarding those elms yesterday/* he said to his sister.
95
"No indeed."
"I must make a note of that/' he continued. "I am
surprised that the rector allowed it."
"Perhaps it may not be the rector's affair."
"Whose else could it be?"
"The lord of the manor."
"Impossible."
"Butter, Dolly?"
"Thank you, Evie dear. Charles "
"Yes, dear?"
"I didn't know one could pollard elms. I thought one
only pollarded willows."
"Oh no, one can pollard elms."
"Then why oughtn't the elms in the churchyard to
be pollarded?"
Charles frowned a little, and turned again to his sis-
ter. "Another point. I must speak to Chalkeley."
"Yes, rather; you must complain to Chalkeley."
"It's not good him saying he is not responsible for
those men. He is responsible."
"Yes, rather."
Brother and sister were not callous. They spoke thus,
partly because they desired to keep Chalkeley up to the
mark a healthy desire in its way partly because they
avoided the personal note in life. All Wilcoxes did. It
did not seem to them of supreme importance. Or it may
be as Helen supposed: they realized its importance, but
were afraid of it. Panic and emptiness, could one glance
behind. They were not callous, and they left the break-
fast-table with aching hearts. Their mother never had
come in to breakfast. It was in the other rooms, and
especially in the garden, that they felt her loss most. As
Charles went out to the garage, he was reminded at
every step of the woman who had loved him and whom
he could never replace. What battles he had fought
against her gentle conservatism! How she had disliked
improvements, yet how loyally she had accepted them
96
when made! He and his father what trouble they had
had to get this very garage! With what difficulty had
they persuaded her to yield them the paddock for it
the paddock that he loved more dearly than the garden
itself! The vine she had got her way about the vine. It
still encumbered the south wall with its unproductive
branches. And so with Evie, as she stood talking to the
cook. Though she could take up her mother's work in-
side the house, just as the man could take it up without,
she felt that something unique had fallen out of her life.
Their grief, though less poignant than their father's,
grew from deeper roots, for a wife may be replaced; a
mother never*
Charles would go back to the office, There was little
to do at Howards End. The contents of his mother's will
had been long known to them. There were no legacies,
no annuities, none of the posthumous bustle with whkh
some of the dead prolong their activities, Trusting her
husband, she had left him everything without reserve.
She was quite a poor woman the house had been all
her dowry, and the house would come to Charles in
time. Her water-colours Mr. Wilcox intended to reserve
for Paul, while Evie would take the jewellery and lace.
How easily she slipped out of life! Charles thought the
habit laudable, though he did not intend to adopt it him-
self , whereas Margaret would have seen in it an almost
culpable indifference to earthly fame. Cynicism not the
superficial cynicism that snaris and siseers, but the cyn-
icism that can go with courtesy ami tenderness that was
the note of Mrs. Wikox's wflL She wanted not to vex
people. That acxxnp!ished, the earth might freeze over
her for ever.
No, there was nothing for Charles to wait for. He
could not go on with his honeymoon, so he would go
up to London and work he felt too miserable hanging
about. He and Dolly would have the furnished flat while
his father rested quietly in the country with Evie. He
97
could also keep an eye on his own little house, which
was being painted and decorated for him in one of the
Surrey suburbs, and in which he hoped to install him-
self soon after Christmas. Yes, he would go up after
lunch in his new motor, and the town servants, who
had come down for the funeral, would go up by train.
He found his father's chauffeur in the garage, said
"Morning" without looking at the man's face, and,
bending over the car, continued: "Hullo! my new car's
been driven!"
"Has it, sir?"
"Yes," said Charles, getting rather red; "and whoev-
er's driven it hasn't cleaned it properly, for there's mud
on the axle. Take it off."
The man went for the cloths without a word. He was
a chauffeur as ugly as sin not that this did him disser-
vice with Charles, who thought charm in a man rather
rot, and had soon got rid of the little Italian beast with
whom they had started.
"Charles-" His bride was tripping after him over the
hoar-frost, a dainty black column, her little face and
elaborate mourning hat forming the capital thereof.
"One minute, I'm busy. Well, Crane, who's been
driving it, do you suppose?"
"Don't know, I'm sure, sir. No one's driven it since
I've been back, but, of course, there's the fortnight I've
been away with the other car in Yorkshire."
The mud came off easily.
"Charles, your father's down. Something's hap-
pened. He wants you in the house at once. Oh,
Charles!"
"Wait, dear, wait a minute. Who had the key to the
garage while you were away, Crane?"
"The gardener, sir."
''Do you mean to tell me that old Penny can drive a
motor?"
"No, sir; no one's had the motor out, sir/'
9*
"Then how do you account for the mud on the axle?"
"I can't, of course, say for the time I've been in York-
shire. No more mud now, sir/'
Charles was vexed. The man was treating him as a
fool, and if his heart had not been so heavy he would
have reported him to his father. But it was not a morn-
ing for complaints. Ordering the motor to be round after
lunch, he joined his wife, who had all the whik been
pouring out some incoherent story about a letter and a
Miss Schlegel.
"Now, Dolly, I can attend to you. Miss Schlegel?
What does she want?"
When people wrote a letter, Charles always asked
what they wanted. Want was to him the only cause erf
action. And the question in this case was correct, for his
wife replied: "She wants Howards End."
"Howards End? Now, Crane, just don't forget to put
on the Stepney wheel/'
"No, sir."
"Now, mind you don't forget, for I Come, little
woman/' When they were out erf the chauffeur's sight
he put his arm around her waist and pressed her against
him. All his affection and half his attentionit was what
he granted her throughout their happy married Me.
"But you haven't listened, Chartes "
"What's wrong?"
"I keep on telling you Howards End. Miss Sdiie-
gel's got it."
"Got what?" asked Charies, imdaspkig her. "What
the dickens are you talking about?"
"Now, Charles* you promised no* to say those
naugjhty "
"Look here, I'm m no mood for foolery. It's no morn-
ing for it either/'
"I tdl yoii I keep on teffing you Miss Sch$egel~~
she's got it ycmr mother's left it to her and you've all
got to move out!"
99
"Howards End?"
"Howards End!" she screamed, mimicking him, and
as she did so Evie came dashing out of the shrubbery.
"Dolly, go back at once! My father's much annoyed
with you. Charles" she hit herself wildly "come in at
once to Father. He's had a letter that's too awful."
Charles began to run, but checked himself, and
stepped heavily across the gravel path. There the house
was the nine windows, the unprolific vine. He ex-
claimed: "Schlegels again!" and as if to complete chaos,
Dolly said: "Oh no, the matron of the nursing-home has
written instead of her."
"Come in, all three of you!" cried his father, no
longer inert. "Dolly, why have you disobeyed me?"
"Oh, Mr. Wilcox"
"I told you not to go out to the garage. I've heard
you all shouting in the garden. I won't have it. Come
in."
He stood in the porch, transformed, letters in his
hand.
"Into the dining-room, every one of you. We can't
discuss private matters in the middle of all the servants.
Here, Charles, here; read these. See what you make."
Charles took two letters, and read them as he fol-
lowed the procession. The first was a covering note from
the matron. Mrs. Wilcox had desired her, when the fu-
neral should be over, to forward the enclosed. The en-
closedit was from his mother herself. She had written:
"To my husband: I should like Miss Schlegel (Margaret)
to have Howards End."
"I suppose we're going to have a talk about this?"
he remarked, ominously calm.
"Certainly. I was coming out to you when Dolly"
"Well, let's sit down."
"Come, Evie, don't waste time, sit down."
In silence they drew up to the breakfast-table. The
events of yesterday indeed, of this morning suddenly
100
receded into a past so remote that they seemed scarcely
to have lived in it. Heavy breathings were heard. They
were calming themselves. Charles, to steady them fur-
ther, read the enclosure out loud: "A note in my moth-
er's handwriting, in an envelope addressed to my father,
sealed. Inside: 'I should like Miss Schlegel (Margaret) to
have Howards End/ No date, no signature. Forwarded
through the matron of that nursing-home. Now, the
question is "
Dolly interrupted him. "But I say that note isn't legal.
Houses ought to be done by a lawyer, Charles, surely/'
Her husband worked his jaw severely. Little lumps
appeared in front of either ear a symptom that she had
not yet learnt to respect, and she asked whether she
might see the note. Charles looked at his father for per-
mission, who said abstractedly: "Give it her/" She
seized it, and at once exclaimed: "Why, it's only in pen-
cil! I said so. Pencil never counts/'
"We know that it is not legally binding. Dolly/' said
Mr. Wilcox, speaking from out of his fortress. "We are
aware of that. Legally, I should be justified in tearing
it up and throwing it into the fire. Of course, my dear,
we consider you as one of the family, but it will be bet-
ter if you do not interfere with what you do riot under-
stand/'
Charles, vexed both with his father and his wife, then
repeated: ''The question is" He had cleared a space erf
the breakfast-table from plates and knives so that he
could draw patterns on the tablecloth. "The question is
whether Miss Schlegel, during the fortnight we were all
away, whether she unduly" He stopped.
"I don't think that/' said his father, whose nature
was nobler than his son's.
"Don't think what?"
"That she would have that it is a ease of undtte in-
fluence. No, to my mind the question is the the inval-
id's condition at the time she wrote."
101
"My dear father, consult an expert if you like, but I
don't admit it is my mother's writing/ 7
"Why, you just said it was!" cried Dolly.
"Never mind if I did," he blazed out; "and hold your
tongue."
The poor little wife coloured at this, and, drawing her
handkerchief from her pocket, shed a few tears. No one
noticed her. Evie was scowling like an angry boy. The
two men were gradually assuming the manner of the
committee-room. They were both at their best when
serving on committees. They did not make the mistake
of handling human affairs in the bulk, but disposed of
them item by item, sharply. Calligraphy was the item
before them now, and on it they turned their well-
trained brains. Charles, after a little demur, accepted the
writing as genuine, and they passed on to the next point.
It is the best perhaps the only way of dodging emo-
tion. They were the average human article, and had they
considered the note as a whole, it would have driven
them miserable or mad. Considered item by item, the
emotional content was minimized, and all went forward
smoothly. The clock ticked, the coals blazed higher, and
contended with the white radiance that poured in
through the windows. Unnoticed, the sun occupied his
sky, and the shadows of the tree stems, extraordinarily
solid, fell like trenches of purple across the frosted lawn.
It was a glorious winter morning. Evie's fox terrier, who
had passed for white, was only a dirty grey dog now,
so intense was the purity that surrounded him. He was
discredited, but the blackbirds that he was chasing
glowed with Arabian darkness, for all the conventional
colouring of life had been altered. Inside, the dock struck
ten with a rich and confident note. Other clocks con-
firmed it, and the discussion moved towards its dose.
To follow it is unnecessary. It is rather a moment
when the commentator should step forward. Ought the
Wikoxes to have offered their home to Margaret? I think
102
not. The appeal was too flimsy, It was not legal; it had
been written in illness, and under the spell of a sudden
friendship; it was contrary to the dead woman's inten-
tions in the past, contrary to her very nature, so far as
that nature was understood by them. To them Howards
End was a house: they could not know that to her it had
been a spirit, for whkh she sought a spiritual heir. And
pushing one step farther in these mists may they not
have decided even better than they supposed? Is it cred-
ible that the possessions of the spirit can be bequeathed
at all? Has the soul offspring? A wych-elm tree, a vine,
a wisp of hay with dew on it can passion for such
things be transmitted where there is no bond erf blood?
No; the Wilcoxes are not to be blamed. The problem
is too terrific, and they could not even perceive a prob-
lem. No; it is natural and fitting that after due debate
they should tear the note up and throw it on to their
dining-room fire. The practical moralist may acquit them
absolutely. He who strives to look deeper may acquit
them almost. For one hard fact remains. They did ne-
glect a personal appeal. The woman who had died did
say to them: "Do this/' and they answered: "We will
not/'
The incident made a most painful impression on
them. Grief mounted into the brain and worked there
disquietingly. Yesterday they had lamented; "She was
a dear mother, a true wife: in our absence she neglected
her health and died." Today they thought: "She was
not as true, as dear, as we supposed." The desire for a
more inward light had found expression at last, the un-
seen had impacted on trie seen, and afl that they amid
say was "Treachery/* Mrs* Wikox had been treacherous
to the family, to the laws of property, to her own written
word. How did she expect Howards End to be conveyed
to Miss Schiegel? Was her husband, to when* it legally
belonged, to make It over to her as a free gift? Was the
said Miss Schfegel to have a life interest in it, or to own
103
it absolutely? Was there to be no compensation for the
garage and other improvements that they had made un-
der the assumption that all would be theirs some day?
Treacherous! Treacherous and absurd! When we think
the dead both treacherous and absurd, we have gone far
towards reconciling ourselves to their departure. That
note, scribbled in pencil, sent through the matron, was
unbusinesslike as well as cruel, and decreased at once
the value of the woman who had written it.
"Ah, well!" said Mr. Wilcox, rising from the table. "I
shouldn't have thought it possible."
"Mother couldn't have meant it," said Evie, still
frowning.
"No, my girl, of course not."
"Mother believed so in ancestors too it isn't like her
to leave anything to an outsider, who'd never appreci-
ate."
"The whole thing is unlike her," he announced. "If
Miss Schlegel had been poor, if she had wanted a house,
I could understand it a little. But she has a house of her
own. Why should she want another? She wouldn't have
any use for Howards End."
"That time may prove," murmured Charles.
"How?" asked his sister.
"Presumably she knows Mother will have told her.
She got twice or three times into the nursing-home. Pre-
sumably she is awaiting developments."
"What a horrid woman!" And Dolly, who had recov-
ered, cried: "Why, she may be coming down to turn us
out now!"
Charles put her right. "I wish she would," he said
ominously. "I could then deal with her."
"So could I," echoed his father, who was feeling
rather in the cold. Charles had been kind in undertaking
the funeral arrangements and in telling him to eat his
breakfast, but the boy as he grew up was a little dicta-
torial, and assumed the post of chairman too readily. "I
104
could deal with her, if she comes, but she won't come.
You're all a bit hard on Miss Schlegel/*
"That Paul business was pretty scandalous, though /'
"I want no more of the Paul business, Charles, as I
said at the time, and besides, it is quite apart from this
business. Margaret ScWegel has been officious and tire-
some during this terrible week, and we have all suffered
under her, but upon my soul she*s honest. She's not in
collusion with the matron. I'm absolutely certain of it,
Nor was she with the doctor. I'm equally certain of that,
She did not hide anything from us, for up to that very
afternoon she was as ignorant as we are, She, like our-
selves, was a dupe" He stopped for a moment. "You
see, Charles, in her terrible pain your poor mother put
us all in false positions. Paul would not have left En-
gland, you would not have gone to Italy, nor Evie and
I into Yorkshire, if only we had known, Well, Miss
Schlegel's position has been equally false. Take aU in aU #
she has not come out of it badly."
Evie said: "But those chrysanthemums"
"Or coining down to the funeral at all " echoed
Dolly.
"Why shouldn't she come down? She had the right
to, and she stood far back among the Hilton women.
The flowers certainly we should not have sent such
flowers, but they may have seemed the right thing to
her, Evie, and, for all you know, they may be the ois-
tom in Germany."
"Oh, I forget she isn't really English/* cried Evie.
"That would explain a lot."
"She's a cosmopolitan/* said Charles, looking at his
watch. "I admit Fm rather down on cosmopolitans. My
fault, doubtless. I cannot stand them, and a German
cosmopolitan is the limit. I think that's about aH, isn't
it? I want to ran down and see Chalkeiey. A bicyde will
do. And, fay the way, I wish you'd speak to Crane some
time. I'm certain he's had my new car out/*
105
"Has he done it any harm?"
"No."
"In that case, I shall let it pass. It's not worth while
having a row."
Charles and his father sometimes disagreed. But they
always parted with an increased regard for one another,
and each desired no doughtier comrade when it was
necessary to voyage for a little past the emotions. So the
sailors of Ulysses voyaged past the Sirens, having first
stopped one another's ears with wool.
CHAPTER
12
Charles need not have been anxious. Miss Schlegel had
never heard of his mother's strange request. She was to
hear of it in after years, when she had built up her life
differently, and it was to fit into position as the head-
stone of the corner. Her mind was bent on other ques-
tions now, and by her also it would have been rejected
as the fantasy of an invalid.
She was parting from these Wilcoxes for the second
time. Paul and his mother, ripple and great wave, had
flowed into her life and ebbed out of it for ever. The
ripple had left no traces behind: the wave had strewn at
her feet fragments torn from the unknown. A curious
seeker, she stood for a while at the verge of the sea that
tells so little, but tells a little, and watched the outgoing
of this last tremendous tide. Her friend had vanished in
agony, but not, she believed, in degradation. Her with-
drawal had hinted at other things besides disease and
pain. Some leave our life with tears, others with an in-
sane frigidity; Mrs. Wilcox had taken the middle course,
which only rarer natures can pursue. She had kept pro-
portion. She had told a little of her grim secret to her
106
friends, but not too much; she had shut up her heart-
almost, but not entirely. It is thus, if there is any rule,
that we ought to die neither as victim nor as fanatk,
but as the seafarer who can greet with an equal eye the
deep that he is entering, and the shore that he must
leave.
The last word whatever it would be had certainly
not been said in Hilton churchyard. She had not died
there. A funeral is not death, any more than baptism is
birth or marriage union. All three are the clumsy de-
vices, coming now too late, now too early, by whkh
Society would register the quick motions of man. In
Margaret's eyes Mrs, Wikox had escaped registration.
She had gone out of life vividly, her own way, and no
dust was so truly dust as the contents of that heavy cof-
fin, lowered with ceremonial until it rested on the dust
of the earth, no flowers so utterly wasted as the chry-
santhemums that the frost must have withered before
morning. Margaret had once said she "loved supersti-
tion." It was not true. Few women had tried more ear-
nestly to pierce the accretions in whkh body and soul
are enwrapped. The death of Mrs. Wikox had helped
her in her work. She saw a little more clearly than hith-
erto what a human being is, and to what he may aspire.
Truer relationships gleamed. Perhaps the last word
would be hope hope even on this side of the grave.
Meanwhile, she could take an interest in the survi-
vors. In spite erf her Christmas duties, in spite erf har
brother, the Wikoxes continued to play a considerable
part in her thoughts. She had seen so much erf them In
the final week. They were not "her sort," they ware
often suspicious and stupid, and deficient where she ex-
celled; but collision with them stimulated her, and she
felt an interest that verged into Wang, even for Charles.
She desired to protect them, and often felt that they
could protect her, excelling where she was deficient.
Once past the rocks of emotion, they knew so well what
107
to do, whom to send for; their hands were on all the
ropes, they had grit as well as grittiness, and she valued
grit enormously. They led a life that she could not attain
to the outer life of ''telegrams and anger," which had
detonated when Helen and Paul had touched in June,
and had detonated again the other week. To Margaret
this life was to remain a real force. She could not despise
it, as Helen and Tibby affected to do. It fostered such
virtues as neatness, decision, and obedience, virtues of
the second rank, no doubt, but they have formed our
civilization. They form character, too; Margaret could not
doubt it: they keep the soul from becoming sloppy. How
dare Schlegels despise Wilcoxes, when it takes all sorts
to make a world?
"Don't brood too much/' she wrote to Helen, "on
the superiority of the unseen to the seen. It's true, but
to brood on it is mediaeval. Our business is not to con-
trast the two, but to reconcile them."
Helen replied that she had no intention of brooding
on such a dull subject. What did her sister take her for?
The weather was magnificent. She and the Mosebachs
had gone tobogganing on the only hill that Pomerania
boasted. It was fun, but overcrowded, for the rest of
Pomerania had gone there too. Helen loved the country,
and her letter glowed with physical exercise and poetry.
She spoke of the scenery, quiet, yet august; of the snow-
clad fields, with their scampering herds of deer; of the
river and its quaint entrance into the Baltic Sea; of the
Oderberge, only three hundred feet high, from which
one slid all too quickly back into the Pomeranian plains,
and yet these Oderberge were real mountains, with pine-
forests, streams, and views complete, "It isn't size that
counts so much as the way things are arranged." In an-
other paragraph she referred to Mrs. Wilcox sympathet-
ically, but the news had not bitten into her. She had not
realized the accessories of death, which are in a sense
more memorable than death itself. The atmosphere of
108
precautions and recriminations, and in the midst a hu-
man body growing more vivid because it was in pain;
the end of that body in Hilton churchyard; the survival
of something that suggested hope, vivid in its turn
against life's workaday cheerfulness all these were lost
to Helen, who only felt that a pleasant lady could now
be pleasant no longer. She returned to Wkkham Place
full of her own affairs she had had another proposal
and Margaret, after a moment's hesitation, was content
that this should be so.
The proposal had not been a serious matter. It was
the work of Fraulein Mosebach, who had conceived the
large and patriotic notion of winning back her cousins
to the Fatherland by matrimony, England had played
Paul Wilcox, and lost; Germany played Herr Forstmeis-
ter someone Helen could not remember his name,
Herr Forstmeister lived in a wood, and standing on
the summit of the Oderberge, he had pointed out his
house to Helen, or rather, had pointed out the wedge
of pines in which it lay. She had exclaimed: "Oh, how
lovely! That's the place for me!" and in the evening
Frieda appeared in her bedroom. "I have a message,
dear Helen," etc., and so she had, but had been very
nice when Helen laughed; quite understood a forest
too solitary and damp quite agreed, but Herr Forst-
meister believed he had assurance to the contrary. Ger-
many had lost, but with good-humour; holding the
manhood of the world, she felt bound to win. "And
there will even be someone for Tibby/' concluded
Helen. "There now, TW>y, think of that; Frieda is sav-
ing up a little girl for you, in pig-tails and white worsted
stockings, but the feet of the stockings me pink, as if the
little girl had trodden in strawberries. I've talked too
much. My head aches. Now you talk."
Tibby consented to talk. He too was full of his own
affairs, for he had just been up to try for a scholarship
at Oxford. The men were down, and the candidates had
109
been housed in various colleges, and had dined in hall.
Tibby was sensitive to beauty, the experience was new,
and he gave a description of his visit that was almost
glowing. The august and mellow university, soaked with
the richness of the western counties that it has served
for a thousand years, appealed at once to the boy's taste:
it was the kind of thing he could understand, and he
understood it all the better because it was empty. Ox-
ford is Oxford: not a mere receptacle Jfor youth, like
Cambridge. Perhaps it wants its inmates to love it rather
than to love one another: such at all events was to be
its effect on Tibby. His sisters sent him there that he
might make friends, for they knew that his education
had been cranky, and had severed him from other boys
and men. He made no friends. His Oxford remained
Oxford empty, and he took into life with him, not the
memory of a radiance, but the memory of a colour
scheme.
It pleased Margaret to hear her brother and sister talk-
ing. They did not get on overwell as a rule. For a few
moments she listened to them, feeling elderly and be-
nign. Then something occurred to her, and she inter-
rupted:
"Helen, I told you about poor Mrs. Wilcox; that sad
business?"
"Yes."
"1 have had a correspondence with her son. He was
winding up the estate, and wrote to ask me whether his
mother had wanted me to have anything. I thought it
good of him, considering I knew her so little. I said that
she had once spoken of giving me a Christmas present,
but we both forgot about it afterwards/'
"I hope Charles took the hint."
"Yesthat is to say, her husband wrote later on, and
thanked me for being a little kind to her, and actually
gave me her silver vinaigrette. Don't you think that is
extraordinarily generous? It has made me like him very
no
much. He hoped that this will not be the end of our
acquaintance, but that you and I wiH go and stop with
Evie some time in the future. I like Mr. Wilcox, He is
taking up his work rubber it is a big business. I gather
he is launching out, rather. Charles is in it, too. Charles
is marrieda pretty little creature, but she doesn't seem
wise. They took on the flat, but now they have gone off
to a house of their own."
Helen, after a decent pause, continued her account of
Stettin. How qukkly a situation changes! In June she
had been in a crisis; even in November she could blush
and be unnatural; now it was January, and the whole
affair lay forgotten. Looking back on the past six months,
Margaret realized the chaotic nature of our daily life,
and its difference from the orderly sequence that has
been fabricated by historians. Actual life is full of false
dues and sign-posts that lead nowhere. With infinite ef-
fort we nerve ourselves for a crisis that never comes.
The most successful career must show a waste of
strength that might have removed mountains, and the
most unsuccessful is not that of the man who is taken
unprepared, but of him who has prepared and is never
taken. On a tragedy of that kind our national morality
is duly silent. It assumes that preparation against danger
is in itself a good, and that men, like nations, are the
better for staggering through life fully anned. The trag-
edy of preparedness has scarcely been handled, save by
the Greeks, Life is indeed dangerous, but not in the way
morality would have us believe. It is indeed unmanage-
able, but the essence of it is not a battle. It is unman-
ageable because it Is a romance, and its esserKe is
romantic beauty.
Margaret hoped that for the future she would be kss
cautious, not more cautious, than she had been in the
past.
CHAPTER
13
Over two years passed, and the Schlegel household con-
tinued to lead its life of cultured but not ignoble ease,
still swimming gracefully on the grey tides of London.
Concerts and plays swept past them, money had been
spent and renewed, reputations won and lost, and the
city herself, emblematic of their lives, rose and fell in a
continual flux, while her shallows washed more widely
against the hills of Surrey and over the fields of Hert-
fordshire. This famous building had arisen, that was
doomed. Today Whitehall had been transformed: it
would be the turn of Regent Street tomorrow. And
month by month the roads smelt more strongly of pet-
rol, and were more difficult to cross, and human beings
heard each other speak with greater difficulty, breathed
less of the air, and saw less of the sky. Nature withdrew:
the leaves were falling by midsummer; the sun shone
through dirt with an admired obscurity.
To speak against London is no longer fashionable. The
Earth as an artistic cult has had its day, and the litera-
ture of the near future will probably ignore the country
and seek inspiration from the town. One can under-
stand the reaction. Of Pan and the elemental forces, the
public has heard a little too much they seem Victorian,
while London is Georgian and those who care for the
earth with sincerity may wait long ere the pendulum
swings back to her again. Certainly London fascinates.
One visualizes it as a tract of quivering grey, intelligent
without purpose, and excitable without love; as a spirit
that has altered before it can be chronicled; as a heart
that certainly beats, but with no pulsation of humanity.
It lies beyond everything: Nature, with all her cruelty,
comes nearer to us than do these crowds of men, A
friend explains himself: the earth is explicable from her
we came, and we must return to her. But who can ex-
plain Westminster Bridge Road or Liverpool Street in
the morning the city inhaling; or the same thorough-
fares in the evening the city exhaling her exhausted air?
We reach in desperation beyond the fog, beyond the
very stars, the voids of the universe are ransacked to
justify the monster, and stamped with a human face,
London is religion's opportunity not the decorous re-
ligion of theologians, but anthropomorphic crude. Yes,
the continuous flow would be tolerable if a man of our
own sort not anyone pompous or tearful were caring
for us up in the sky.
The Londoner seldom understands his city until it
sweeps him, too, away from his moorings, and Margar-
et's eyes were not opened until the lease of Wkkham
Place expired. She had always known that it must ex-
pire, but the knowledge only became vivid about nine
months before the event. Then the house was suddenly
ringed with pathos. It had seen so much happiness. Why
had it to be swept away? In the streets of the city she
noted for the first time the architecture of hurry, and
heard the language of hurry on the mouths of its inhab-
itantsclipped words, formless sentences, potted ex-
pressions of approval or disgust. Month by month things
were stepping livelier, but to what goal? The population
still rose, but what was the quality of the men hero? The
particular millionaire who owned the freehold erf Wick-
ham Place, and desired to erect Babylonian flats upofi
it what right had he to stir so large a portion of the
quivering felly? He was not a fool she had heard him
expose Socialism but tnie insight began just where his
intelligence ended, and one gathered that this was the
case with most millkmaires. What right had such men-
But Margaret checked herself. That way lies madness.
Thank goodness she, too, had some money, and could
purchase a new home.
Tibby, now in his second year at Oxford, was down
for the Easter vacation, and Margaret took the oppor-
tunity of having a serious talk with him. Did he at all
know where he wanted to live? Tibby didn't know that
he did know. Did he at all know what he wanted to do?
He was equally uncertain, but when pressed remarked
that he should prefer to be quite free of any profession.
Margaret was not shocked, but went on sewing for a
few minutes before she replied.
"I was thinking of Mr. Vyse. He never strikes me as
particularly happy/'
"Ye-es," said Tibby, and then held his mouth open
in a curious quiver, as if he, too, had thought of
Mr. Vyse, had seen round, through, over, and beyond
Mr. Vyse, had weighed Mr. Vyse, grouped him, and
finally dismissed him as having no possible bearing on
the subject under discussion. That bleat of Tibby's
infuriated Helen. But Helen was now down in the
dining-room preparing a speech about political econ-
omy. At times her voice could be heard declaiming
through the floor.
"But Mr. Vyse is rather a wretched, weedy man,
don't you think? Then there's Guy. That was a pitiful
business. Besides" shifting to the general "everyone
is the better for some regular work."
Groans.
"I shall stick to it/' she continued, smiling. "I am
not saying it to educate you; it is what I really think. I
believe that in the last century men have developed the
desire for work, and they must not starve it. It's a new
desire. It goes with a great deal that's bad, but in itself
it's good, and I hope that for women, too, 'not to work'
will soon become as shocking as 'not to be married' was
a hundred years ago."
114
"I have no experience of this profound desire to
which you allude," enunciated Tibby.
"Then we'll leave the subject till you do. I'm not go-
ing to rattle you round. Take your time. Only do think
over the lives of the men you like most, and see how
they've arranged them."
"I like Guy and Mr. Vyse most," said Tibby faintly,
and leant so far back in his chair that he extended in a
horizontal line from knees to throat.
"And don't think I'm not serious because I don't use
the traditional argumentsmaking money, a sphere
awaiting you, and so on all of which are, for various
reasons, cant." She sewed on. "I'm only your sister. I
haven't any authority over you, and I don't want to have
any. Just to put before you what I think the truth. You
see" she shook off the pince-nez to which she had re-
cently taken "in a few years we shall be the same age
practically, and I shall want you to help me. Men are so
much nicer than women."
"Labouring under such a delusion, why do you not
marry?"
"I sometimes jolly well think I would if I got the
chance."
"Has nobody arst you?"
"Only ninnies."
"Do people ask Helen?"
"Plentifully."
"Tell me about them."
"No."
"Tell me about your ninnies, then."
"They were men who had nothing better to do," said
his sister, feeling that she was entitled to score this point.
"So take warning: you must work, or else you must
pretend to work, which is what I do. Work, work, work
if you'd save your soul and your body. It is honestly a
necessity, dear boy. Look at the Wilcoxes, look at Mr.
Pembroke. With all their defects of temper and under-
115
standing, such men give me more pleasure than many
who are better equipped, and I think it is because they
have worked regularly and honestly."
"Spare me the Wilcoxes/' he moaned.
"I shall not. They are the right sort/'
"Oh, goodness me, Meg!" he protested, suddenly
sitting up, alert and angry. Tibby, for all his defects, had
a genuine personality.
"Well, they're as near the right sort as you can imag-
ine/'
"No, no oh, no!"
"I was thinking of the younger son, whom I once
classed as a ninny, but who came back so ill from Ni-
geria. He's gone out there again, Evie Wilcox tells me
out to his duty."
"Duty" always elicited a groan.
"He doesn't want the money, it is work he wants,
though it is beastly work dull country, dishonest na-
tives, an eternal fidget over fresh water and food. A na-
tion who can produce men of that sort may well be
proud. No wonder England has become an Empire."
"Empire!"
"I can't bother over results," said Margaret, a little
sadly. "They are too difficult for me. I can only look at
the men. An Empire bores me, so far, but I can appre-
ciate the heroism that builds it up. London bores me,
but what thousands of splendid people are labouring to
make London"
"What it is," he sneered.
"What it is, worse luck. I want activity without civi-
lization. How paradoxical! Yet I expect that is what we
shall find in heaven."
"And I," said Tibby, "want civilization without ac-
tivity, which, I expect, is what we shall find in the other
place."
"You needn't go as far as the other place, Tibbikins,
if you want that. You can find it at Oxford."
116
'Stupid-"
"If I'm stupid, get me back to the house-hunting. I'll
even live in Oxford if you like North Oxford. I'll live
anywhere except Bournemouth, Torquay, and Chelten-
ham. Oh yes, or Ilfracombe and Swanage and Tun-
bridge Wells and Surbiton and Bedford. There on no
account."
"London, then."
"I agree, but Helen rather wants to get away from
London. However, there's no reason we shouldn't have
a house in the country and also a flat in town, provided
we all stick together and contribute. Though of course
Oh, how one does maunder on, and to think, to think
of the people who are really poor. How do they live?
Not to move about the world would kill me."
As she spoke, the door was flung open, and Helen
burst in in a state of extreme excitement.
"Oh, my dears, what do you think? You'll never
guess. A woman's been here asking me for her hus-
band. Her whatl" (Helen was fond of supplying her own
surprise.) "Yes, for her husband, and it really is so."
"Not anything to do with Bracknell?" cried Margaret,
who had lately taken on an unemployed of that name
to clean the knives and boots.
"I offered Bracknell, and he was rejected. So was
Tibby. (Cheer up, Tibby!) It's no one we know. I said:
'Hunt, my good woman; have a good look round, hunt
under the tables, poke up the chimney, shake out the
antimacassars. Husband? husband?' Oh, and she so
magnificently dressed and tinkling like a chandelier."
"Now, Helen, what did happen really?"
"What I say. I was, as it were, orating my speech.
Annie opens the door like a fool, and shows a female
straight in on me, with my mouth open. Then we be-
gan very civilly. 'I want my husband, what I have rea-
son to believe is here/ No how unjust one is. She said
'whom,' not 'what/ She got it perfectly. So I said:
117
'Name, please?' and she said: 'Lan, Miss/ and there we
were."
"Lan?"
"Lan or Len. We were not nice about our vowels.
Lanoline."
"But what an extraordinary"
"I said: 'My good Mrs. Lanoline, we have some grave
misunderstanding here. Beautiful as I am, my modesty
is even more remarkable than my beauty, and never,
never has Mr. Lanoline rested his eyes on mine/ "
"I hope you were pleased," said Tibby.
"Of course," Helen squeaked. "A perfectly delight-
ful experience. Oh, Mrs. Lanoline' s a dearshe asked
for a husband as if he was an umbrella. She mislaid him
Saturday afternoon and for a long time suffered no in-
convenience. But all night, and all this morning her ap-
prehensions grew. Breakfast didn't seem the same no,
no more did lunch, and so she strolled up to z Wickham
Place as being the most likely place for the missing ar-
ticle."
"But how on earth"
"Don't begin how on earthing. 'I know what I know/
she kept repeating, not uncivilly, but with extreme
gloom. In vain I asked her what she did know. Some
knew what others knew, and others didn't, and if they
didn't, then others again had better be careful. Oh dear,
she was incompetent! She had a face like a silkworm,
and the dining-room reeks of orris-root. We chatted
pleasantly a little about husbands, and I wondered
where hers was too, and advised her to go to the police.
She thanked me. We agreed that Mr. Lanoline's a notty,
notty man, and hasn't no business to go on the lardy-
da. But I think she suspected me up to the last. Bags I
writing to Aunt Juley about this. Now, Meg, remem-
ber-bags I."
"Bag it by all means," murmured Margaret, putting
down her work. "I'm not sure that this is so funny,
118
Helen. It means some horrible volcano smoking some-
where, doesn't it?"
"I don't think so she doesn't really mind. The ad-
mirable creature isn't capable of tragedy."
"Her husband may be, though," said Margaret, mov-
ing to the window.
"Oh, no, not likely. No one capable of tragedy could
have married Mrs. Lanoline."
"Was she pretty?"
"Her figure may have been good once."
The flats, their only outlook, hung like an ornate cur-
tain between Margaret and the welter of London. Her
thoughts turned sadly to house-hunting. Wickham Place
had been so safe. She feared, fantastically, that her own
little flock might be moving into turmoil and squalor,
into nearer contact with such episodes as these.
"Tibby and I have again been wondering where we'll
live next September," she said at last.
"Tibby had better first wonder what he'll do," re-
torted Helen; and that topic was resumed, but with ac-
rimony. Then tea came, and after tea Helen went on
preparing her speech, and Margaret prepared one, too,
for they were going out to a discussion society on the
morrow. But her thoughts were poisoned. Mrs. Lano-
line had risen out of the abyss, like a faint smell, a goblin
footfall, telling of a life where love and hatred had both
decayed.
119
CHAPTER
14
The mystery, like so many mysteries, was explained.
Next day, just as they were dressed to go out to dinner,
a Mr. Bast called. He was a clerk in the employment of
the Porphyrion Fire Insurance Company. Thus much
from his card. He had come "about the lady yesterday."
Thus much from Annie, who had shown him into the
dining-room.
"Cheers, children!" cried Helen. "It's Mrs. Lano-
line."
Tibby was interested. The three hurried downstairs,
to find, not the gay dog they expected, but a young man,
colourless, toneless, who had already the mournful eyes
above a drooping moustache that are so common in
London, and that haunt some streets of the city like ac-
cusing presences. One guessed him as the third gener-
ation, grandson to the shepherd or ploughboy whom
civilization had sucked into the town; as one of the
thousands who have lost the life of the body and failed
to reach the life of the spirit. Hints of robustness sur-
vived in him, more than a hint of primitive good looks,
and Margaret, noting the spine that might have been
straight, and the chest that might have broadened, won-
dered whether it paid to give up the glory of the animal
for a tail coat and a couple of ideas. Culture had worked
in her own case, but during the last few weeks she had
doubted whether it humanized the majority, so wide and
so widening is the gulf that stretches between the nat-
ural and the philosophic man, so many the good chaps
who are wrecked in trying to cross it. She knew this
type very well the vague aspirations, the mental dis-
honesty, the familiarity with the outsides of books. She
120
knew the very tones in which he would address her.
She was only unprepared for an example of her own
visiting-card.
"You wouldn't remember giving me this, Miss Schle-
gel?" said he, uneasily familiar.
"No; I can't say I do/'
"Well, that was how it happened, you see/ 7
"Where did we meet, Mr. Bast? For a minute I don't
remember."
"It was a concert at the Queen's Hall. I think you will
recollect," he added pretentiously, "when I tell you that
it included a performance of the Fifth Symphony of Bee-
thoven."
"We hear the Fifth practically every time it's done, so
I'm not suredo you remember, Helen?"
"Was it the time the sandy cat walked around the
balustrade?"
He thought not.
"Then I don't remember. That's the only Beethoven
I ever remember specially."
"And you, if I may say so, took away my umbrella,
inadvertently of course."
"Likely enough," Helen laughed, "for I steal um-
brellas even oftener than I hear Beethoven. Did you get
it back?"
"Yes, thank you, Miss Schlegel."
"The mistake arose out of my card, did it?" inter-
posed Margaret.
"Yes, the mistake aroseit was a mistake."
"The lady who called here yesterday thought that you
were calling too, and that she could find you?" she con-
tinued, pushing him forward, for, though he had prom-
ised an explanation, he seemed unable to give one.
"That's so, calling too a mistake."
"Then why?" began Helen, but Margaret laid a
hand on her arm.
"I said to my wife," he continued more rapidly "I
121
said to Mrs. Bast: 'I have to pay a call on some friends/ '
and Mrs. Bast said to me: 'Do go.' While I was gone,
however, she wanted me on important business, and
thought I had come here, owing to the card, and so came
after me, and I beg to tender my apologies, and hers as
well, for any inconvenience we may have inadvertently
caused you/ 7
"No inconvenience/' said Helen; "but I still don't
understand."
An air of evasion characterized Mr. Bast. He ex-
plained again, but was obviously lying, and Helen didn't
see why he should get off. She had the cruelty of youth.
Neglecting her sister's pressure, she said: "I still don't
understand. When did you say you paid this call?"
"Call? What call?" said he, staring as if her question
had been a foolish one, a favourite device of those in
mid-stream.
"This afternoon call."
"In the afternoon, of course!" he replied, and looked
at Tibby to see how the repartee went. But Tibby, him-
self a repartee, was unsympathetic, and said: "Saturday
afternoon or Sunday afternoon?"
"S-Saturday."
"Really!" said Helen; "and you were still calling on
Sunday, when your wife came here. A long visit/'
"I don't call that fair," said Mr. Bast, going scarlet
and handsome. There was fight in his eyes. "I know
what you mean, and it isn't so."
"Oh, don't let us mind," said Margaret, distressed
again by odours from the abyss.
"It was something else," he asserted, his elaborate
manner breaking down. "I was somewhere else to what
you think, so there!"
"It was good of you to come and explain," she said.
"The rest is naturally no concern of ours."
"Yes, but I want I wanted have you ever read The
Ordeal of Richard Feverel?"
122
Margaret nodded.
"It's a beautiful book. I wanted to get back to the
Earth, don't you see, like Richard does in the end. Or
have you ever read Stevenson's Prince Otto?"
Helen and Tibby groaned gently.
"That's another beautiful book. You get back to the
Earth in that. I wanted" He mouthed affectedly. Then
through the mists of his culture came a hard fact, hard
as a pebble. "I walked all the Saturday night," said
Leonard. "I walked." A thrill of approval ran through
the sisters. But culture closed in again. He asked
whether they had ever read E. V. Lucas's Open Road.
Said Helen: "No doubt it's another beautiful book,
but I'd rather hear about your road."
"Oh, I walked."
"How far?"
"I don't know, nor for how long. It got too dark to
see my watch."
"Were you walking alone, may I ask?"
"Yes," he said, straightening himself; "but we'd been
talking it over at the office. There's been a lot of talk at
the office lately about these things. The fellows there
said one steers by the Pole Star, and I looked it up in
the celestial atlas, but once out of doors everything gets
so mixed-"
"Don't talk to me about the Pole Star," interrupted
Helen, who was becoming interested. "I know its little
ways. It goes round and round, and you go round after
it."
"Well, I lost it entirely. First of all the street lamps,
then the trees, and towards morning it got cloudy."
Tibby, who preferred his comedy undiluted, slipped
from the room. He knew that this fellow would never
attain to poetry, and did not want to hear him trying.
Margaret and Helen remained. Their brother influenced
them more than they knew: in his absence they were
stirred to enthusiasm more easily.
123
"Where did you start from?" cried Margaret. "Do tell
MS more."
"I took the underground to Wimbledon. As I came
out of the office I said to myself: 'I must have a walk
once in a way. If I don't take this walk now, I shall
never take it/ I had a bit of dinner at Wimbledon, and
then-"
"But not good country there, is it?"
"It was gas-lamps for hours. Still, I had all the night,
and being out was the great thing. I did get into woods,
too, presently."
"Yes, go on," said Helen.
"You've no idea how difficult uneven ground is when
it's dark."
"Did you actually go off the roads?"
'Oh yes. I always meant to go off the roads, but the
worst of it is that it's more difficult to find one's way."
"Mr. Bast, you're a born adventurer," laughed Mar-
garet. "No professional athlete would have attempted
what you've done. It's a wonder your walk didn't end
in a broken neck. Whatever did your wife say?"
"Professional athletes never move without lanterns
and compasses," said Helen. "Besides, they can't walk.
It tires them. Go on."
'I felt like R. L. S. You probably remember how in
Virgintbus "
"Yes, but the wood. This 'ere wood. How did you
get out of it?"
"I managed one wood, and found a road the other
side which went a good bit uphill. I rather fancy it was
those North Downs, for the road went off into grass,
and I got into another wood. That was awful, with gorse
bushes. I did wish I'd never come, but suddenly it got
light just while I seemed going under one tree. Then I
found a road down to a station, and took the first train
I could back to London."
"But was the dawn wonderful?" asked Helen.
124
With unforgettable sincerity he replied: "No." The
word flew again like a pebble from the sling. Down top-
pled all that had seemed ignoble or literary in his talk,
down toppled tiresome R. L. S. and the "love of the
earth" and his silk top-hat. In the presence of these
women Leonard had arrived, and he spoke with a flow,
an exultation, that he had seldom known.
"The dawn was only grey, it was nothing to men-
tion-"
"Just a grey evening turned upside down. I know."
"and I was too tired to lift up my head to look at
it, and so cold too. I'm glad I did it, and yet at the time
it bored me more than I can say. And besides you can
believe me or not as you choose I was very hungry.
That dinner at Wimbledon I meant it to last me all night
like other dinners. I never thought that walking would
make such a difference. Why, when you're walking you
want, as it were, a breakfast and luncheon and tea dur-
ing the night as well, and I'd nothing but a packet of
Woodbines. Lord, I did feel bad! Looking back, it wasn't
what you may call enjoyment. It was more a case of
sticking to it. I did stick. I I was determined. Oh, hang
it all! what's the good I mean, the good of living in a
room for ever? There one goes on day after day, same
old game, same up and down to town, until you forget
there is any other game. You ought to see once in a way
what's going on outside, if it's only nothing particular
after all."
"I should just think you ought," said Helen, sitting
on the edge of the table.
The sound of a lady's voice recalled him from sincer-
ity, and he said: "Curious it should all come about from
reading something of Richard Jeff cries."
"Excuse me, Mr. Bast, but you're wrong there. It
didn't. It came from something far greater/'
But she could not stop him. Borrow was imminent
after Jefferies Borrow, Thoreau, and sorrow. R. L. S.
125
brought up the rear, and the outburst ended in a swamp
of books. No disrespect to these great names. The fault
is ours, not theirs. They mean us to use them for sign-
posts, and are not to blame if, in our weakness, we mis-
take the sign-post for the destination. And Leonard had
reached the destination. He had visited the county of
Surrey when darkness covered its amenities, and its cosy
villas had re-entered ancient night. Every twelve hours
this miracle happens, but he had troubled to go and see
for himself. Within his cramped little mind dwelt some-
thing that was greater than Jefferies's books the spirit
that led Jefferies to write them; and his dawn, though
revealing nothing but monotones, was part of the eter-
nal sunrise that shows George Borrow Stonehenge.
'"Then you don't think I was foolish?" he asked, be-
coming again the naive and sweet-tempered boy for
whom Nature had intended him.
"Heavens, no!" replied Margaret.
"Heaven help us if we do!" replied Helen.
"I'm very glad you say that. Now, my wife would
never understand not if I explained for days."
"No, it wasn't foolish!" cried Helen, her eyes aflame.
"You've pushed back the boundaries; I think it splendid
of you."
"You've not been content to dream, as we have"
"Though we have walked, too"
"I must show you a picture upstairs"
Here the door-bell rang. The hansom had come to
take them to their evening party.
"Oh, bother, not to say dash I had forgotten we
were dining out; but do, do come round again and have
a talk."
"Yes, you must do," echoed Margaret.
Leonard, with extreme sentiment, replied: "No, I
shall not. It's better like this."
"Why better?" asked Margaret.
"No, it is better not to risk a second interview. I shall
126
always look back on this talk with you as one of the
finest things in my life. Really. I mean this. We can never
repeat. It has done me real good, and there we had bet-
ter leave it."
"That's rather a sad view of life, surely."
"Things so often get spoiled."
"I know," flashed Helen, "but people don't."
He could not understand this. He continued in a vein
which mingled true imagination and false. What he said
wasn't wrong, but it wasn't right, and a false note jarred.
One little twist, they felt, and the instrument might be
in tune. One little strain, and it might be silent for ever.
He thanked the ladies very much, but he would not call
again. There was a moment's awkwardness, and then
Helen said: "Go, then; perhaps you know best; but
never forget you're better than Jefferies." And he went.
Their hansom caught him up at the corner, passed with
a waving of hands, and vanished with its accomplished
load into the evening.
London was beginning to illuminate herself against
the night. Electric lights sizzled and jagged in the main
thoroughfares, gas-lamps in the side streets glimmered
a canary gold or green. The sky was a crimson battlefield
of spring, but London was not afraid. Her smoke miti-
gated the splendour, and the clouds down Oxford Street
were a delicately painted ceiling, which adorned while
it did not distract. She has never known the clear-cut
armies of the purer air. Leonard hurried through her
tinted wonders, very much part of the picture. His was
a grey life, and to brighten it he had ruled off a few
corners for romance. The Miss Schlegels or, to speak
more accurately, his interview with them were to fill
such a corner, nor was it by any means the first time
that he had talked intimately to strangers. The habit was
analogous to a debauch, an outlet, though the worst of
outlets, for instincts that would not be denied. Terrify-
ing him, it would beat down his suspicions and pru-
127
dence until he was confiding secrets to people whom he
had scarcely seen. It brought him many fears and some
pleasant memories. Perhaps the keenest happiness he
had ever known was during a railway journey to Cam-
bridge, where a decent-mannered undergraduate had
spoken to him. They had got into conversation, and
gradually Leonard flung reticence aside, told some of his
domestic troubles, and hinted at the rest. The under-
graduate, supposing they could start a friendship, asked
him to "coffee after hall/' which he accepted, but after-
wards grew shy, and took care not to stir from the com-
mercial hotel where he lodged. He did not want
Romance to collide with the Porphyrion, still less with
Jacky, and people with fuller, happier lives are slow to
understand this. To the Schlegels, as to the undergrad-
uate, he was an interesting creature, of whom they
wanted to see more. But they to him were denizens of
Romance, who must keep to the corner he had assigned
them, pictures that must not walk out of their frames.
His behaviour over Margaret's visiting-card had been
typical. His had scarcely been a tragic marriage. Where
there is no money and no inclination to violence, trag-
edy cannot be generated. He could not leave his wife,
and he did not want to hit her. Petulance and squalor
were enough. Here "that card" had come in. Leonard,
though furtive, was untidy, and left it lying about. Jacky
found it, and then began: "What's that card, eh?" "Yes,
don't you wish you knew what that card was?" "Len,
who's Miss Schlegel?" etc. Months passed, and the card,
now as a joke, now as a grievance, was handed about,
getting dirtier and dirtier. It followed them when they
moved from Camelia Road to Tulse Hill. It was submit-
ted to third parties. A few inches of pasteboard, it be-
came the battlefield on which the souls of Leonard and
his wife contended. Why did he not say: "A lady took
my umbrella, another gave me this that I might call for
my umbrella"? Because Jacky would have disbelieved
128
him? Partly, but chiefly because he was sentimental. No
affection gathered round the card, but it symbolized the
life of culture, that Jacky should never spoil. At night he
would say to himself: "Well, at all events, she doesn't
know about that card. Yah! done her there!"
Poor Jacky! she was not a bad sort, and had a great
deal to bear. She drew her own conclusion she was
only capable of drawing one conclusion and in the ful-
ness of time she acted upon it. AU the Friday Leonard
had refused to speak to her, and had spent the evening
observing the stars. On the Saturday he went up, as
usual, to town, but he came not back Saturday night nor
Sunday morning, nor Sunday afternoon. The inconven-
ience grew intolerable, and though she was now of a
retiring habit, and shy of women, she went up to Wick-
ham Place. Leonard returned in her absence. The card,
the fatal card, was gone from the pages of Ruskin, and
he guessed what had happened.
"Well?" he had exclaimed, greeting her with peals of
laughter. "I know where you've been, but you don't
know where I've been."
Jacky sighed, said: "Len, I do think you might ex-
plain," and resumed domesticity.
Explanations were difficult at this stage, and Leonard
was too silly or, it is tempting to write, too sound a
chap to attempt them. His reticence was not entirely the
shoddy article that a business life promotes, the reti-
cence that pretends that nothing is something, and hides
behind the Daily Telegraph. The adventurer, also, is ret-
icent, and it is an adventure for a clerk to walk for a few
hours in darkness. You may laugh at him, you who have
slept nights out on the veldt, with your rifle beside you
and all the atmosphere of adventure past. And you also
may laugh who think adventures silly. But do not be
surprised if Leonard is shy whenever he meets you, and
if the Schlegels rather than Jacky hear about the dawn.
That the Schlegels had not thought him foolish be-
129
came a permanent joy. He was at his best when he
thought of them. It buoyed him as he journeyed home
beneath fading heavens. Somehow the barriers of wealth
had fallen, and there had been he could not phrase it
a general assertion of the wonder of the world. "My
conviction/ 7 says the mystic, "gains infinitely the mo-
ment another soul will believe in it," and they had
agreed that there was something beyond life's daily
grey. He took off his top-hat and smoothed it thought-
fully. He had hitherto supposed the unknown to be
books, literature, clever conversation, cultures. One
raised oneself by study, and got upsides with the world.
But in that quick interchange a new light dawned. Was
that "something" walking in the dark among the sub-
urban hills?
He discovered that he was going bareheaded down
Regent Street. London came back with a rush. Few were
about at this hour, but all whom he passed looked at
him with a hostility that was the more impressive be-
cause it was unconscious. He put his hat on. It was too
big; his head disappeared like a pudding into a basin,
the ears bending outwards at the touch of the curly brim.
He wore it a little backwards, and its effect was greatly
to elongate the face and to bring out the distance be-
tween the eyes and the moustache. Thus equipped, he
escaped criticism. No one felt uneasy as he titupped
along the pavements, the heart of a man ticking fast in
his chest.
130
CHAPTER
15
The sisters went out to dinner full of their adventure,
and when they were both full of the same subject, there
were few dinner-parties that could stand up against
them. This particular one, which was all ladies, had
more kick in it than most, but succumbed after a strug-
gle. Helen at one part of the table, Margaret at the other,
would talk of Mr. Bast and of no one else, and some-
where about the entree their monologues collided, fell
ruining, and became common property. Nor was this
all. The dinner-party was really an informal discussion
club; there was a paper after it, read amid coffee-cups
and laughter in the drawing-room, but dealing more or
less thoughtfully with some topic of general interest. Af-
ter the paper came a debate, and in this debate Mr. Bast
also figured, appearing now as a bright spot in civiliza-
tion, now as a dark spot, according to the temperament
of the speaker. The subject of the paper had been "How
ought I to dispose of my money? " the reader professing
to be a millionaire on the point of death, inclined to
bequeath her fortune for the foundation of local art gal-
leries, but open to conviction from other sources. The
various parts had been assigned beforehand, and some
of the speeches were amusing. The hostess assumed the
ungrateful role of "the millionaire's eldest son/ 7 and
implored her expiring parent not to dislocate Society by
allowing such vast sums to pass out of the family. Money
was the fruit of self-denial, and the second generation
had a right to profit by the self-denial of the first. What
right had "Mr. Bast" to profit? The National Gallery was
good enough for the likes of him. After property had
had its say a saying that is necessarily ungracious the
various philanthropists stepped forward. Something
must be done for "Mr. Bast": his conditions must be
improved without impairing his independence; he must
have a free library, or free tennis-courts; his rent must
be paid in such a way that he did not know it was being
paid; it must be made worth his while to join the Ter-
ritorials; he must be forcibly parted from his uninspiring
wife, the money going to her as a compensation; he must
be assigned a Twin Star, some member of the leisured
classes who would watch over him ceaselessly (groans
from Helen); he must be given food but no clothes,
clothes but no food, a third-return ticket to Venice, with-
out either food or clothes when he arrived there. In
short, he might be given anything and everything so
long as it was not the money itself.
And here Margaret interrupted.
"Order, order, Miss Schlegel!" said the reader of the
paper. "You are here, I understand, to advise me in the
interests of the Society for the Preservation of Places of
Historic Interest or Natural Beauty. I cannot have you
speaking out of your role. It makes my poor head go
round, and I think you forget that I am very ill."
"Your head won't go round if only you'll listen to my
argument," said Margaret. "Why not give him the
money itself? You're supposed to have about thirty
thousand a year."
"Have I? I thought I had a million."
"Wasn't a million your capital? Dear me! we ought
to have settled that. Still, it doesn't matter. Whatever
you've got, I order you to give as many poor men as
you can three hundred a year each."
"But that would be pauperizing them," said an ear-
nest girl, who liked the Schlegels but thought them a
little unspiritual at times.
"Not if you gave them so much. A big windfall would
not pauperize a man. It is these little driblets, distrib-
uted among too many, that do the harm. Money's ed-
132
ucational. It's far more educational than the things it
buys/' There was a protest. "In a sense/' added Mar-
garet, but the protest continued. "Well, isn't the most
civilized thing going, the man who has learnt to wear
his income properly?"
"Exactly what your Mr. Basts won't do."
"Give them a chance. Give them money. Don't dole
them out poetry-books and railway-tickets like babies.
Give them the wherewithal to buy these things. When
your Socialism comes, it may be difficult, and we may
think in terms of commodities instead of cash. Till it
comes, give people cash, for it is the warp of civilization,
whatever the woof may be. The imagination ought to
play upon money and realize it vividly, for it's the the
second most important thing in the world. It is so slurred
over and hushed up, there is so little clear thinking
oh, political economy, of course, but so few of us think
dearly about our own private incomes, and admit that
independent thoughts are in nine cases out of ten the
result of independent means. Money: give Mr. Bast
money, and don't bother about his ideals. He'll pick up
those for himself."
She leant back while the more earnest members of the
club began to misconstrue her. The female mind, though
cruelly practical in daily life, cannot bear to hear ideals
belittled in conversation, and Miss Schlegel was asked
however she could say such dreadful things, and what
it would profit Mr. Bast if he gained the whole world
and lost his own soul. She answered: "Nothing, but he
would not gain his soul until he had gained a little of
the world." Then they said no they did not believe it,
and she admitted that an overworked clerk may save his
soul in the superterrestrial sense, where the effort will
be taken for the deed, but she denied that he will ever
explore the spiritual resources of this world, will ever
know the rarer joys of the body, or attain to clear and
passionate intercourse with his fellows. Others had at-
tacked the fabric of Society Property, Interest, etc.; she
only fixed her eyes on a few human beings, to see how,
under present conditions, they could be made hap-
pier. Doing good to humanity was useless: the many-
coloured efforts thereto spreading over the vast area like
films and resulting in a universal grey. To do good to
one, or, as in this case, to a few, was the utmost she
dare hope for.
Between the idealists and the political economists,
Margaret had a bad time. Disagreeing elsewhere, they
agreed in disowning her, and in keeping the adminis-
tration of the millionaire's money in their own hands.
The earnest girl brought forward a scheme of "personal
supervision and mutual help," the effect of which was
to alter poor people until they became exactly like peo-
ple who were not so poor. The hostess pertinently re-
marked that she, as eldest son, might surely rank among
the millionaire's legatees. Margaret weakly admitted the
claim, and another claim was at once set up by Helen,
who declared that she had been the millionaire's house-
maid for over forty years, overfed and underpaid; was
nothing to be done for her, so corpulent and poor? The
millionaire then read out her last will and testament, in
which she left the whole of her fortune to the Chancellor
of the Exchequer. Then she died. The serious parts of
the discussion had been of higher merit than the play-
fulin a men's debate is the reverse more general? but
the meeting broke up hilariously enough, and a dozen
happy ladies dispersed to their homes.
Helen and Margaret walked the earnest girl as far as
Battersea Bridge Station, arguing copiously all the way.
When she had gone they were conscious of an allevia-
tion, and of the great beauty of the evening. They turned
back towards Oakley Street. The lamps and the plane-
trees, following the line of the embankment, struck a
note of dignity that is rare in English cities. The seats,
almost deserted, were here and there occupied by gen-
134
tlefolk in evening dress, who had strolled out from the
houses behind to enjoy fresh air and the whisper of the
rising tide. There is something Continental about Chel-
sea Embankment. It is an open space used rightly, a
blessing more frequent in Germany than here. As Mar-
garet and Helen sat down, the city behind them seemed
to be a vast theatre, an opera-house in which some end-
less trilogy was performing, and they themselves a pair
of satisfied subscribers who did not mind losing a little
of the second act.
"Cold?"
"No."
"Tired?"
"Doesn't matter."
The earnest girl's train rumbled away over the bridge.
"I say, Helen-"
"Well?"
"Are we really going to follow up Mr. Bast?"
"I don't know."
"I think we won't."
"As you like."
"It's no good, I think, unless you really mean to know
people. The discussion brought that home to me. We
got on well enough with him in a spirit of excitement,
but think of rational intercourse. We mustn't play at
friendship. No, it's no good."
"There's Mrs. Lanoline, too," Helen yawned. "So
dull."
"Just so, and possibly worse than dull."
"I should like to know how he got hold of your card."
"But he said something about a concert and an um-
brella-"
"Then did the card see the wife"
"Helen, come to bed."
"No, just a little longer, it is so beautiful. Tell me; oh
yes; did you say money is the warp of the world?"
"Yes."
135
"Then what's the woof?"
''Very much what one chooses/' said Margaret. "It's
something that isn't money one can't say more."
"Walking at night?"
"Probably."
"For Tibby, Oxford?"
"It seems so."
"For you?"
"Now that we have to leave Wickham Place, I begin
to think it's that. For Mrs. Wilcox it was certainly How-
ards End."
One's own name will carry immense distances. Mr.
Wilcox, who was sitting with friends many seats away,
heard his, rose to his feet, and strolled along towards
the speakers.
"Is is sad to suppose that places may ever be more
important than people," continued Margaret.
"Why, Meg? They're so much nicer generally. I'd
rather think of that forester's house in Pomerania than
of the fat Herr Forstmeister who lived in it."
"I believe we shall come to care about people less and
less, Helen. The more people one knows, the easier it
becomes to replace them. It's one of the curses of Lon-
don. I quite expect to end my life caring most for a
place."
Here Mr. Wilcox reached them. It was several weeks
since they had met.
"How do you do?" he cried. "I thought I recognized
your voices. Whatever are you both doing down here?"
His tones were protective. He implied that one ought
not to sit out on Chelsea Embankment without a male
escort. Helen resented this, but Margaret accepted it as
part of the good man's equipment.
"What an age it is since I've seen you, Mr. Wilcox. I
met Evie in the tube, though, lately. I hope you have
good news of your son."
136
"Paul?" said Mr. Wilcox, extinguishing his cigarette
and sitting down between them. "Oh, Paul's all right.
We had a line from Madeira. He'll be at work again by
now."
"Ugh" said Helen, shuddering from complex
causes.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Isn't the climate of Nigeria too horrible?"
"Someone's got to go/' he said simply. "England
will never keep her trade overseas unless she is pre-
pared to make sacrifices. Unless we get firm in West
Africa, Ger untold complications may follow. Now tell
me all your news."
"Oh, we've had a splendid evening," cried Helen,
who always woke up at the advent of a visitor. "We
belong to a kind of club that reads papers, Margaret
and I all women, but there is a discussion after. This
evening it was on how one ought to leave one's money
whether to one's family, or to the poor, and if so how
oh, most interesting."
The man of business smiled. Since his wife's death
he had almost doubled his income. He was an important
figure at last, a reassuring name on company prospec-
tuses, and life had treated him very well. The world
seemed in his grasp as he listened to the River Thames,
which still flowed inland from the sea. So wonderful to
the girls, it held no mysteries for him. He had helped to
shorten its long tidal trough by taking shares in the lock
at Teddington, and if he and other capitalists thought
good, some day it could be shortened again. With a good
dinner inside him and an amiable but academic woman
on either flank, he felt that his hands were on all the
ropes of life, and that what he did not know could not
be worth knowing.
"Sounds a most original entertainment!" he ex-
claimed, and laughed in his pleasant way. "I wish Evie
137
would go to that sort of thing. But she hasn't the time.
She's taken to breeding Aberdeen terriers jolly little
dogs."
"I expect we'd better be doing the same, really."
"We pretend we're improving ourselves, you see/'
said Helen a little sharply, for the Wilcox glamour is not
of the kind that returns, and she had bitter memories of
the days when a speech such as he had just made would
have impressed her favourably. "We suppose it is a
good thing to waste an evening once a fortnight over a
debate, but, as my sister says, it may be better to breed
dogs/'
"Not at all. I don't agree with your sister. There's
nothing like a debate to teach one quickness. I often
wish I had gone in for them when I was a youngster. It
would have helped me no end."
"Quickness?"
"Yes. Quickness in argument. Time after time I've
missed scoring a point because the other man has had
the gift of gab and I haven't. Oh, I believe in these dis-
cussions."
The patronizing tone, thought Margaret, came well
enough from a man who was old enough to be their
father. She had always maintained that Mr. Wilcox had
a charm. In time of sorrow or emotion his inadequacy
had pained her, but it was pleasant to listen to him now;
and to watch his thick brown moustache and high fore-
head confronting the stars. But Helen was nettled. The
aim of their debates, she implied, was truth.
"Oh, yes, it doesn't much matter what subject you
take," said he.
Margaret laughed and said: "But this is going to be
far better than the debate itself/'
Helen recovered herself and laughed too. "No I won't
go on," she declared. "I'll just put our special case to
Mr. Wilcox."
138
"About Mr. Bast? Yes, do. He'll be more lenient to a
special case."
"But Mr. Wilcox, do first light another cigarette. It's
this. We've just come across a young fellow who's evi-
dently very poor, and who seems interest"
"What's his profession?"
"Clerk."
"What in?"
"Do you remember, Margaret?"
"Porphyrion Fire Insurance Company."
"Oh yes; the nice people who gave Aunt Juley a new
hearth-rug. He seems interesting, in some ways very,
and one wishes one could help him. He is married to a
wife whom he doesn't seem to care for much. He likes
books, and what one may roughly call adventure, and
if he had a chance But he is so poor. He lives a life
where all the money is apt to go on nonsense and
clothes. One is so afraid that circumstances will be too
strong for him and that he will sink. Well, he got mixed
up in our debate. He wasn't the subject of it, but it
seemed to bear on his point. Suppose a millionaire died,
and desired to leave money to help such a man. How
should he be helped? Should he be given three hundred
pounds a year direct, which was Margaret's plan? Most
of them thought this would pauperize him. Should he
and those like him be given free libraries? I said 'No!'
He doesn't want more books to read, but to read books
rightly. My suggestion was he should be given some-
thing every year towards a summer holiday, but then
there is his wife, and they said she would have to go
too. Nothing seemed quite right! Now, what do you
think? Imagine that you were a millionaire, and wanted
to help the poor. What would you do?"
Mr. Wilcox, whose fortune was not so very far below
the standard indicated, laughed exuberantly. "My dear
Miss Schlegel, I will not rush in where your sex has been
unable to tread. I will not add another plan to the nu-
merous excellent ones that have been already suggested.
My only contribution is this: let your young friend clear
out of the Porphyrion Fire Insurance Company with all
possible speed."
''Why?' 7 said Margaret.
He lowered his voice. "This is between friends. It'll
be in the receiver's hands before Christmas. It'll smash,"
he added, thinking that she had not understood.
"Dear me, Helen, listen to that. And he'll have to get
another place!"
"Wf/1 have? Let him leave the ship before it sinks. Let
him get one now."
"Rather than wait, to make sure?"
"Decidedly."
"Why's that?"
Again the Olympian laugh, and the lowered voice.
"Naturally the man who's in a situation when he ap-
plies stands a better chance, is in a stronger position,
than the man who isn't. It looks as if he's worth some-
thing. I know by myself (this is letting you into the
State secrets) it affects an employer greatly. Human na-
ture, I'm afraid."
"I hadn't thought of that," murmured Margaret,
while Helen said: "Our human nature appears to be the
other way round. We employ people because they're
unemployed. The boot man, for instance."
"And how does he clean the boots?"
"Not well," confessed Margaret.
"There you are!"
"Then do you really advise us to tell this youth"
"I advise nothing," he interrupted, glancing up and
down the Embankment, in case his indiscretion had been
overheard. "I oughtn't to have spokenbut I happen to
know, being more or less behind the scenes. The Por-
phyrion's a bad, bad concern. Now, don't say I said so.
It's outside the Tariff Ring."
140
"Certainly I won't say. In fact, I don't know what
that means."
"I thought an insurance company never smashed/'
was Helen's contribution. "Don't the others always run
in and save them?"
"You're thinking of reinsurance/' said Mr. Wilcox
mildly. "It is exactly there that the Porphyrion is weak.
It has tried to undercut, has been badly hit by a long
series of small fires, and it hasn't been able to reinsure.
I'm afraid that public companies don't save one another
for love.
" 'Human nature/ I suppose," quoted Helen, and he
laughed and agreed that it was. When Margaret said
that she supposed that clerks, like everyone else, found
it extremely difficult to get situations in these days, he
replied: "Yes, extremely," and rose to rejoin his friends.
He knew by his own office seldom a vacant post, and
hundreds of applicants for it; at present no vacant post.
"And how's Howards End looking?" said Margaret,
wishing to change the subject before they parted. Mr.
Wilcox was a little apt to think one wanted to get some-
thing out of him.
"It's let."
"Really. And you wandering homeless in long-haired
Chelsea? How strange are the ways of fate!"
"No; it's let unfurnished. We've moved."
"Why, I thought of you both as anchored there for
ever. Evie never told me."
"I dare say when you met Evie the thing wasn't set-
tled. We only moved a week ago. Paul has rather a feel-
ing for the old place, and we held on for him to have
his holiday there; but, really, it is impossibly small. End-
less drawbacks. I forget whether you've been up to it?"
"As far as the house, never."
"Well, Howards End is one of those converted farms.
They don't really do, spend what you will on them. We
messed away with a garage all among the wych-elm
141
roots, and last year we enclosed a bit of the meadow
and attempted a rockery. Evie got rather keen on Alpine
plants. But it didn't do no, it didn't do. You remember,
or your sister will remember, the farm with those abom-
inable guinea-fowls, and the hedge that the old woman
never would cut properly, so that it all went thin at the
bottom. And, inside the house, the beamsand the stair-
case through a door picturesque enough, but not a
place to live in." He glanced over the parapet cheer-
fully. "Full tide. And the position wasn't right either.
The neighbourhood's getting suburban. Either be in
London or out of it, I say; so we've taken a house in
Ducie Street, dose to Sloane Street, and a place right
down in Shropshire Oniton Grange. Ever heard of On-
iton? Do come and see us right away from everywhere,
up towards Wales."
"What's a change!" said Margaret. But the change
was in her own voice, which had become most sad. "I
can't imagine Howards End or Hilton without you."
"Hilton isn't without us," he replied. "Charles is
there still/'
"Still?" said Margaret, who had not kept up with the
Charleses. "But I thought he was still at Epsom. They
were furnishing that Christmas one Christmas. How
everything alters! I used to admire Mrs. Charles from
our windows very often. Wasn't it Epsom?"
"Yes, but they moved eighteen months ago. Charles,
the good chap" his voice dropped "thought I should
be lonely. I didn't want him to move, but he would, and
took a house at the other end of Hilton, down by the
Six Hills. He had a motor, too. There they all are, a very
jolly party he and she and the two grandchildren."
"I manage other people's affairs so much better than
they manage them themselves," said Margaret as they
shook hands. "When you moved out of Howards End,
I should have moved Mr. Charles Wilcox into it. I should
have kept so remarkable a place in the family."
142
"So it is," he replied. "I haven't sold it, and don't
mean to."
"No; but none of you are there."
"Oh, we've got a splendid tenant Hamar Bryce, an
invalid. If Charles ever wanted itbut he won't. Dolly
is so dependent on modern conveniences. No, we have
all decided against Howards End. We like it in a way,
but now we feel that it is neither one thing nor the other.
One must have one thing or the other."
"And some people are lucky enough to have both.
You're doing yourself proud, Mr. Wilcox. My congrat-
ulations."
"And mine," said Helen.
"Do remind Evie to come and see us two, Wickham
Place. We shan't be there very long, either."
"You, too, on the move?"
"Next September," Margaret sighed.
"Everyone moving! Good-bye."
The tide had begun to ebb. Margaret leant over the
parapet and watched it sadly. Mr. Wilcox had forgotten
his wife, Helen her lover; she herself was probably for-
getting. Everyone moving. Is it worth while attempting
the past when there is this continual flux even in the
hearts of men?
Helen roused her by saying: "What a prosperous vul-
garian Mr. Wilcox has grown! I have very little use for
him in these days. However, he did tell us about the
Porphyrion. Let us write to Mr. Bast as soon as ever we
get home, and tell him to clear out of it at once."
"Do; yes, that's worth doing. Let us."
"Let's ask him to tea."
143
CHAPTER
16
Leonard accepted the invitation to tea next Saturday.
But he was right; the visit proved a conspicuous failure.
"Sugar?" said Margaret.
"Cake?" said Helen. "The big cake or the little dead-
lies? I'm afraid you thought my letter rather odd, but
we'll explain we aren't odd, really nor affected, re-
ally. We're over-expressive: that's all."
As a lady's lap-dog Leonard did not excel. He was
not an Italian, still less a Frenchman, in whose blood
there runs the very spirit of persiflage and of gracious
repartee. His wit was the Cockney's; it opened no doors
into imagination, and Helen was drawn up short by
"The more a lady has to say, the better," administered
waggishly.
"Oh, yes," she said.
"Ladies brighten "
"Yes, I know. The darlings are regular sunbeams. Let
me give you a plate."
"How do you like your work?" interposed Margaret.
He, too, was drawn up short. He would not have
these women prying into his work. They were Romance,
and so was the room to which he had at last penetrated,
with the queer sketches of people bathing upon its walls,
and so were the very tea-cups, with their delicate bor-
ders of wild strawberries. But he would not let Romance
interfere with his life. There is the devil to pay then.
"Oh, well enough," he answered.
"Your company is the Porphyrion, isn't it?"
"Yes, that's so" becoming rather offended. "It's
funny how things get round/'
"Why funny?" asked Helen, who did not follow the
144
workings of his mind. "It was written as large as life on
your card, and considering we wrote to you there/ and
that you replied on the stamped paper"
"Would you call the Porphyrion one of the big Insur-
ance Companies?" pursued Margaret.
"It depends what you call big."
"I mean by big, a solid, well-established concern that
offers a reasonably good career to its employes."
"I couldn't say some would tell you one thing and
others another," said the employ^ uneasily. "For my
own part" he shook his head "I only believe half I
hear. Not that even; it's safer. Those clever ones come
to the worse grief, I've often noticed. Ah, you can't be
too careful."
He drank, and wiped his moustache, which was go-
ing to be one of those moustaches that always droop
into tea-cupsmore bother than they're worth, surely,
and not fashionable either.
"I quite agree, and that's why I was curious to know:
is it a solid, well-established concern?"
Leonard had no idea. He understood his own corner
of the machine, but nothing beyond it. He desired to
confess neither knowledge nor ignorance, and under
these circumstances, another motion of the head seemed
safest. To him, as to the British public, the Porphyrion
was the Porphyrion of the advertisement a giant, in the
classical style, but draped sufficiently, who held in one
hand a burning torch, and pointed with the other to St.
Paul's and Windsor Castle. A large sum of money was
inscribed below, and you drew your own conclusions.
This giant caused Leonard to do arithmetic and write
letters, to explain the regulations to new clients, and re-
explain them to old ones. A giant was of an impulsive
morality one knew that much. He would pay for Mrs.
Munt's hearth-rug with ostentatious haste, a large claim
he would repudiate quietly and fight court by court. But
his true fighting weight, his antecedents, his amours
145
with other members of the commercial Pantheon all
these were as uncertain to ordinary mortals as were the
escapades of Zeus. While the gods are powerful, we
learn little about them. It is only in the days of their
decadence that a strong light beats into heaven.
"We were told the Porphyrion's no go," blurted
Helen. "We wanted to tell you; that's why we wrote."
"A friend of ours did think that it is unsufficiently
reinsured/' said Margaret.
Now Leonard had his clue. He must praise the Por-
phyrion. "You can tell your friend," he said, "that he's
quite wrong."
"Oh, good!"
The young man coloured a little. In his circle to be
wrong was fatal. The Miss Schlegels did not mind being
wrong. They were genuinely glad that they had been
misinformed. To them nothing was fatal but evil.
"Wrong, so to speak/' he added.
"How 'so to speak'?"
"I mean I wouldn't say he's right altogether."
But this was a blunder. "Then he is right partly,"
said the elder woman, quick as lightning.
Leonard replied that everyone was right partly, if it
came to that.
"Mr. Bast, I don't understand business, and I dare
say my questions are stupid, but can you tell me what
makes a concern 'right' or 'wrong'?"
Leonard sat back with a sigh.
"Our friend, who is also a business man, was so pos-
itive. He said before Christmas"
"And advised you to dear out of it," concluded
Helen. "But I don't see why he should know better than
you do."
Leonard rubbed his hands. He was tempted to say
that he knew nothing about the thing at all. But a com-
mercial training was too strong for him. Nor could he
say it was a bad thing, for this would be giving it away;
146
nor yet that it was good, for this would be giving it away
equally. He attempted to suggest that it was something
between the two, with vast possibilities in either direc-
tion, but broke down under the gaze of four sincere eyes.
As yet he scarcely distinguished between the two sis-
ters. One was more beautiful and more lively, but "the
Miss Schlegels" still remained a composite Indian god
whose waving arms and contradictory speeches were the
product of a single mind.
"One can but see/ 7 he remarked, adding, "as Ibsen
says, 'things happen/ " He was itching to talk about
books and make the most of his romantic hour. Minute
after minute slipped away, while the ladies, with im-
perfect skill, discussed the subject of reinsurance or
praised their anonymous friend. Leonard grew an-
noyedperhaps rightly. He made vague remarks about
not being one of those who minded their affairs being
talked over by others, but they did not take the hint.
Men might have shown more tact. Women, however
tactful elsewhere, are heavy-handed here. They cannot
see why we should shroud our incomes and our pros-
pects in a veil. "How much exactly have you, and how
much do you expect to have next June?" And these were
women with a theory, who held that reticence about
money matters is absurd, and that life would be truer if
each would state the exact size of the golden island upon
which he stands, the exact stretch of warp over which
he throws the woof that is not money. How can we do
justice to the pattern otherwise?
And the precious minutes slipped away, and Jacky
and squalor came nearer. At last he could bear it no
longer, and broke in, reciting the names of books fever-
ishly. There was a moment of piercing joy when Mar-
garet said: "So you like Carlyle," and then the door
opened, and "Mr. Wilcox, Miss Wilcox" entered, pre-
ceded by two prancing puppies.
"Oh, the dears! Oh, Evie, how too impossibly
147
sweet!" screamed Helen, falling on her hands and
knees.
"We brought the little fellows round/' said Mr. Wil-
cox.
"I bred 'em myself/ 7
"Oh, really! Mr. Bast, come and play with puppies/'
"I've got to be going now/' said Leonard sourly.
"But play with puppies a little first."
"This is Ahab, that's Jezebel," said Evie, who was
one of those who name animals after the less successful
characters of Old Testament history.
"I've got to be going."
Helen was too much occupied with puppies to notice
him.
"Mr. Wilcox, Mr. Ba Must you be really? Good-
bye!"
"Come again/' said Helen from the floor.
Then Leonard's gorge arose. Why should he come
again? What was the good of it? He said roundly: "No,
I shan't; I knew it would be a failure."
Most people would have let him go. "A little mistake.
We tried knowing another class impossible." But the
Schlegels had never played with life. They had at-
tempted friendship, and they would take the conse-
quences. Helen retorted: "I call that a very rude remark.
What do you want to turn on me like that for?" and
suddenly the drawing-room re-echoed to a vulgar row.
"You ask me why I turn on you?"
"Yes."
"What do you want to have me here for?"
"To help you, you silly boy!" cried Helen. "And
don't shout."
"I don't want your patronage. I don't want your tea.
I was quite happy. What do you want to unsettle me
for?" He turned to Mr. Wilcox. "I put it to this gentle-
man. I ask you, sir, am I to have my brain picked?"
Mr. Wilcox turned to Margaret with the air of humor-
148
ous strength that he could so well command. "Are we
intruding, Miss Schlegel? Can we be of any use or shall
we go?"
But Margaret ignored him.
"I'm connected with a leading insurance company,
sir. I receive what I take to be an invitation from these
ladies" (he drawled the word). "I come, and it's to have
my brain picked. I ask you, is it fair?"
"Highly unfair," said Mr. Wilcox, drawing a gasp
from Evie, who knew that her father was becoming dan-
gerous.
"There, you hear that? Most unfair, the gentleman
says. There! Not content with" pointing at Margaret
"you can't deny it." His voice rose: he was falling into
the rhythm of a scene with Jacky. "But as soon as I'm
useful, it's a very different thing. 'Oh yes, send for him.
Cross-question him. Pick his brains.' Oh yes. Now, take
me on the whole, I'm a quiet fellow: I'm law-abiding. I
don't wish any unpleasantness; but I I"
"You," said Margaret "you you "
Laughter from Evie, as at a repartee.
"You are the man who tried to walk by the Pole Star."
More laughter.
"You saw the sunrise/'
Laughter.
"You tried to get away from the fogs that are stifling
us all away past books and houses to the truth. You
were looking for a real home."
"I fail to see the connection," said Leonard, hot with
stupid anger.
"So do I." There was a pause. "You were that last
Sunday you are this today. Mr. Bast! I and my sister
have talked you over. We wanted to help you; we also
supposed you might help us. We did not have you here
out of charity which bores us but because we hoped
there would be a connection between last Sunday and
other days. What is the good of your stars and trees,
149
your sunrise and the wind, if they do not enter into our
daily lives? They have never entered into mine, but into
yours, we thought Haven't we all to struggle against
life's daily greyness, against pettiness, against mechan-
ical cheerfulness, against suspicion? I struggle by re-
membering my friends; others I have known by
remembering some place some beloved place or tree-
we thought you one of these."
"Of course, if there's been any misunderstanding,"
mumbled Leonard, "all I can do is to go. But I beg to
state" He paused. Ahab and Jezebel danced at his
boots and made him look ridiculous. "You were picking
my brain for official information I can prove it I" He
blew his nose and left them.
"Can I help you now?" said Mr. Wilcox, turning to
Margaret. "May I have one quiet word with him in the
hall?"
"Helen, go after him do anything anything to
make the noodle understand."
Helen hesitated.
"But really" said their visitor, "Ought she to?"
At once she went.
He resumed. "I would have chimed in, but I felt that
you could polish him off for yourselves I didn't inter-
fere. You were splendid, Miss Schlegel absolutely
splendid. You can take my word for it, but there are
very few women who could have managed him."
"Oh yes," said Margaret distractedly.
"Bowling him over with those long sentences was
what fetched me/' cried Evie.
"Yes, indeed," chuckled her father; "all that part
about 'mechanical cheerfulness' oh, fine!"
"I'm very sorry," said Margaret, collecting herself.
"He's a nice creature really. I cannot think what set him
off. It has been most unpleasant for you,"
"Oh, / didn't mind." Then he changed his mood. He
asked if he might speak as an old friend, and, permis-
150
sion given, said: "Oughtn't you really to be more care-
ful?"
Margaret laughed, though her thoughts still strayed
after Helen. "Do you realize that it's all your fault?" she
said. "You're responsible."
"I?"
"This is the young man whom we were to warn
against the Porphyrion. We warn him, and look!"
Mr. Wilcox was annoyed. "I hardly consider that a
fair deduction," he said.
"Obviously unfair," said Margaret. "I was only
thinking how tangled things are. It's our fault mostly
neither yours nor his."
"Not his?"
"No."
"Miss Schlegel, you are too kind/'
"Yes, indeed," nodded Evie, a little contemptuously.
"You behave much too well to people, and then they
impose on you. I know the world and that type of man,
and as soon as I entered the room I saw you had not
been treating him properly. You must keep that type at
a distance. Otherwise they forget themselves. Sad, but
true. They aren't our sort, and one must face the fact."
"Ye-es."
"Do admit that we should never have had the out-
burst if he was a gentleman."
"I admit it willingly," said Margaret, who was pacing
up and down the room. "A gentleman would have kept
his suspicions to himself."
Mr. Wilcox watched her with a vague uneasiness.
"What did he suspect you of?"
"Of wanting to make money out of him."
"Intolerable brute! But how were you to benefit?"
"Exactly. How indeed! Just horrible, corroding sus-
picion. One touch of thought or of goodwill would have
brushed it away. Just the senseless fear that does make
men intolerable brutes."
151
"I come back to my original point. You ought to be
more careful, Miss Schlegel. Your servants ought to have
orders not to let such people in/'
She turned to him frankly. "Let me explain exactly
why we like this man, and want to see him again."
"That's your clever way of thinking. I shall never be-
lieve you like him."
"I do. Firstly, because he cares for physical adven-
ture, just as you do. Yes, you go motoring and shooting;
he would like to go camping out. Secondly, he cares for
something special in adventure. It is quickest to call that
special something poetry"
"Oh, he's one of that writer sort."
"No oh no! I mean he may be, but it would be loath-
some stiff. His brain is filled with the husks of books,
culture horrible; we want him to wash out his brain
and go to the real thing. We want to show him how he
may get upsides with life. As I said, either friends or the
country, some" she hesitated "either some very dear
person or some very dear place seems necessary to re-
lieve life's daily grey, and to show that it is grey. If pos-
sible, one should have both."
Some of her words ran past Mr. Wilcox. He let them
run past. Others he caught and criticized with admirable
lucidity.
"Your mistake is this, and it is a very common mis-
take. This young bounder has a life of his own. What
right have you to conclude it is an unsuccessful life, or,
as you call it, 'grey'?"
"Because-"
"One minute. You know nothing about him. He
probably has his own joys and interests wife, children,
snug little home. That's where we practical fellows"
he smiled "are more tolerant than you intellectuals. We
live and let live, and assume that things are jogging on
fairly well elsewhere, and that the ordinary plain man
may be trusted to look after his own affairs. I quite
152
grant I look at the faces of the clerks in my own office,
and observe them to be dull, but I don't know what's
going on beneath. So, by the way, with London. I have
heard you rail against London, Miss Schlegel, and it
seems a funny thing to say, but I was very angry with
you. What do you know about London? You only see
civilization from the outside. I don't say in your case,
but in too many cases that attitude leads to morbidity,
discontent, and Socialism."
She admitted the strength of his position, though it
undermined imagination. As he spoke, some outposts
of poetry and perhaps of sympathy fell ruining, and she
retreated to what she called her "second line" to the
special facts of the case.
"His wife is an old bore," she said simply. "He never
came home last Saturday night because he wanted to be
alone, and she thought he was with us."
"With you?"
"Yes," Evie tittered. "He hasn't got the cosy home
that you assumed. He needs outside interests."
"Naughty young man!" cried the girl.
"Naughty?" said Margaret, who hated naughtiness
more than sin. "When you're married, Miss Wilcox,
won't you want outside interests?"
"He has apparently got them," put in Mr. Wilcox
slyly.
"Yes, indeed, Father."
"He was tramping in Surrey, if you mean that/' said
Margaret, pacing away rather crossly.
"Oh, I dare say!"
"Miss Wilcox, he was!"
"M-m-m-m!" from Mr. Wilcox, who thought the ep-
isode amusing, if risque*. With most ladies he would not
have discussed it, but he was trading on Margaret's rep-
utation as an emancipated woman.
"He said so, and about such a thing he wouldn't lie."
They both began to laugh.
153
"That's where I differ from you. Men lie about their
positions and prospects, but not about a thing of that
sort/ 7
He shook his head. "Miss Schlegel, excuse me, but I
know the type."
"I said before he isn't a type. He cares about adven-
tures rightly. He's certain that our smug existence isn't
all. He's vulgar and hysterical and bookish, but I don't
think that sums him up. There's manhood in him as
well. Yes, that's what I'm trying to say. He's a real
man."
As she spoke their eyes met, and it was as if Mr.
Wilcox's defences fell. She saw back to the real man in
him. Unwittingly she had touched his emotions. A
woman and two menthey had formed the magic tri-
angle of sex, and the male was thrilled to jealousy, in
case the female was attracted by another male. Love, say
the ascetics, reveals our shameful kinship with the
beasts. Be it so: one can bear that; jealousy is the real
shame. It is jealousy, not love, that connects us with the
farmyard intolerably, and calls up visions of two angry
cocks and a complacent hen. Margaret crushed compla-
cency down because she was civilized. Mr. Wilcox, un-
civilized, continued to feel anger long after he had rebuilt
his defences and was again presenting a bastion to the
world.
"Miss Schlegel, you're a pair of dear creatures, but
you really must be careful in this uncharitable world.
What does your brother say?"
"I forget."
"Surely he has some opinion?"
"He laughs, if I remember correctly."
"He's very clever, isn't he?" said Evie, who had met
and detested Tibby at Oxford.
"Yes, pretty well but I wonder what Helen's do-
ing."
154
"She is very young to undertake this sort of thing/'
said Mr. Wilcox.
Margaret went out into the landing. She heard no
sound, and Mr. Bast's topper was missing from the hall.
"Helen!" she called.
"Yes!" replied a voice from the library.
"You in there?"
"Yes he's gone some time."
Margaret went to her. "Why, you're all alone," she
said.
"Yes it's all right, Meg. Poor, poor creature"
"Come back to the Wilcoxes and tell me later Mr.
W. much concerned, and slightly titillated."
"Oh, I've no patience with him. I hate him. Poor dear
Mr. Bast! he wanted to talk literature, and we would talk
business. Such a muddle of a man, and yet so worth
pulling through. I like him extraordinarily."
"Well done," said Margaret, kissing her, "but come
into the drawing-room now, and don't talk about him
to the Wilcoxes. Make light of the whole thing."
Helen came and behaved with a cheerfulness that re-
assured their visitor this hen, at all events, was fancy-
free.
"He's gone with my blessing," she cried, "and now
for puppies."
As they drove away, Mr. Wilcox said to his daughter:
"I am really concerned at the way those girls go on.
They are as clever as you make 'em, but unpractical-
God bless me! One of these days they'll go too far. Girls
like that oughtn't to live alone in London. Until they
marry, they ought to have someone to look after them.
We must look in more often we're better than no one.
You like them, don't you, Evie?"
Evie replied: "Helen's right enough, but I can't stand
the toothy one. And I shouldn't have called either of
them girls."
155
Evie had grown up handsome. Dark-eyed, with the
glow of youth under sunburn, built firmly and firm-
lipped, she was the best the Wilcoxes could do in the
way of feminine beauty. For the present, puppies and
her father were the only things she loved, but the net of
matrimony was being prepared for her, and a few days
later she was attracted to a Mr. Percy Cahill, an uncle of
Mrs. Charles, and he was attracted to her.
CHAPTER
17
The Age of Property holds bitter moments even for a
proprietor. When a move is imminent, furniture be-
comes ridiculous, and Margaret now lay awake at nights
wondering where, where on earth they and all their be-
longings would be deposited in September next. Chairs,
tables, pictures, books, that had rumbled down to them
through the generations, must rumble forward again like
a slide of rubbish to which she longed to give the final
push and send toppling into the sea. But there were all
their father's books they never read them, but they
were their father's, and must be kept. There was the
marble-topped chiffonier their mother had set store by
it, they could not remember why. Round every knob
and cushion in the house sentiment gathered, a senti-
ment that was at times personal, but more often a faint
piety to the dead, a prolongation of rites that might have
ended at the grave.
It was absurd, if you came to think of it; Helen and
Tibby came to think of it: Margaret was too busy with
the house-agents. The feudal ownership of land did
bring dignity, whereas the modern ownership of mov-
ables is reducing us again to a nomadic horde. We are
reverting to the civilization of luggage, and historians of
156
the future will note how the middle classes accreted pos-
sessions without taking root in the earth, and may find
in this the secret of their imaginative poverty. The Schle-
gels were certainly the poorer for the loss of Wickham
Place. It had helped to balance their lives, and almost to
counsel them. Nor is their ground-landlord spiritually
the richer. He has built flats on its site, his motor-cars
grow swifter, his exposures of Socialism more trench-
ant. But he has split the precious distillation of the years,
and no chemistry of his can give it back to society again.
Margaret grew depressed; she was anxious to settle
on a house before they left town to pay their annual visit
to Mrs. Munt. She enjoyed this visit, and wanted to have
her mind at ease for it. Swanage, thought dull, was sta-
ble, and this year she longed more than usual for its
fresh air and for the magnificent downs that guard it on
the north. But London thwarted her; in its atmosphere
she could not concentrate. London only stimulates, it
cannot sustain; and Margaret, hurrying over its surface
for a house without knowing what sort of a house she
wanted, was paying for many a thrilling sensation in the
past. She could not even break loose from culture, and
her time was wasted by converts which it would be a
sin to miss, and invitations which it would never do to
refuse. At last she grew desperate; she resolved that she
would go nowhere and be at home to no one until she
found a house, and broke the resolution in half an hour.
Once she had humorously lamented that she had
never been to Simpson's restaurant in the Strand. Now
a note arrived from Miss Wilcox, asking her to lunch
there. Mr. Cahill was coming, and the three would have
such a jolly chat, and perhaps end up at the Hippo-
drome. Margaret had no strong regard for Evie, and no
desire to meet her fianc, and she was surprised that
Helen, who had been far funnier about Simpson's, had
not been asked instead. But the invitation touched her
by its intimate tone. She must know Evie Wilcox better
157
than she supposed, and declaring that she "simply
must," she accepted.
But when she saw Evie at the entrance of the restau-
rant, staring fiercely at nothing after the fashion of ath-
letic women, her heart failed her anew. Miss Wilcox had
changed perceptibly since her engagement. Her voice
was gruffer, her manner more downright, and she was
inclined to patronize the more foolish virgin. Margaret
was silly enough to be pained at this. Depressed at her
isolation, she saw not only houses and furniture, but the
vessel of life itself slipping past her, with people like
Evie and Mr. Cahill on board.
There are moments when virtue and wisdom fail us,
and one of them came to her at Simpson's in the Strand.
As she trod the staircase, narrow but carpeted thickly,
as she entered the eating-room, where saddles of mut-
ton were being trundled up to expectant clergymen, she
had a strong, if erroneous, conviction of her own futil-
ity, and wished she had never come out of her back-
water, where nothing happened except art and
literature, and where no one ever got married or suc-
ceeded in remaining engaged. Then came a little sur-
prise. "Father might be of the party" yes, Father was.
With a smile of pleasure she moved forward to greet
him, and her feeling of loneliness vanished.
"I thought I'd get round if I could," said he. "Evie
told me of her little plan, so I just slipped in and secured
a table. Always secure a table first. Evie, don't pretend
you want to sit by your old father, because you don't.
Miss Schlegel, come in my side, out of pity. My good-
ness, but you look tired! Been worrying round after your
young clerks?"
"No, after houses," said Margaret, edging past him
into the box. "I'm hungry, not tired; I want to eat
heaps."
"That's good. What'll you have?"
"Fish pie," said she, with a glance at the menu.
156
"Fish pie! Fancy coining for fish pie to Simpson's. It's
not a bit the thing to go for here."
"Go for something for me, then/ 7 said Margaret,
pulling off her gloves. Her spirits were rising, and his
reference to Leonard Bast had warmed her curiously.
"Saddle of mutton/' said he after profound reflec-
tion; "and cider to drink. That's the type of thing. I like
this place, for a joke, once in a way. It is so thoroughly
Old English. Don't you agree?"
"Yes," said Margaret, who didn't. The order was
given, the joint rolled up, and the carver, under Mr.
Wilcox's direction, cut the meat where it was succulent,
and piled their plates high. Mr. Cahill insisted on sir-
loin, but admitted that he had made a mistake later on.
He and Evie soon fell into a conversation of the "No, I
didn't; yes, you did" type conversation which, though
fascinating to those who are engaged in it, neither de-
sires nor deserves the attention of others.
"It's a golden rule to tip the carver. Tip everywhere's
my motto."
"Perhaps it does make life more human."
"Then the fellows know one again. Especially in the
East, if you tip, they remember you from year's end to
year's end."
"Have you been in the East?"
"Oh, Greece and the Levant. I used to go out for
sport and business to Cyprus; some military society of
a sort there. A few piastres, properly distributed, help
to keep one's memory green. But you, of course, think
this shockingly cynical. How's your discussion society
getting on? Any new Utopias lately?"
"No, I'm house-hunting, Mr. Wilcox, as I've already
told you once. Do you know of any houses?"
"Afraid I don't."
"Well, what's the point of being practical if you can't
find two distressed females a house? We merely want a
small house with large rooms, and plenty of them."
159
"Evie, I like that! Miss Schlegel expects me to turn
house-agent for her!"
"What's that, Father?"
"I want a new home in September, and someone
must find it. I can't/'
"Percy, do you know of anything?"
"I can't say I do," said Mr. Cahffl.
"How like you! You're never any good/'
"Never any good. Just listen to her! Never any good.
Oh, come!"
"Well, you aren't. Miss Schlegel, is he?"
The torrent of their love, having splashed these drops
at Margaret, swept away on its habitual course. She
sympathized with it now, for a little comfort had re-
stored her geniality. Speech and silence pleased her
equally, and while Mr. Wilcox made some preliminary
inquiries about cheese, her eyes surveyed the restaurant
and admired its well-calculated tributes to the solidity of
our past. Though no more Old English than the works
of Kipling, it had selected its reminiscences so adroitly
that her criticism was lulled, and the guests whom it
was nourishing for imperial purposes bore the outer
semblance of Parson Adams or Tom Jones. Scraps of
their talk jarred oddly on the ear. "Right you are! I'll
cable out to Uganda this evening," came from the table
behind. "Their Emperor wants war; well, let him have
it," was the opinion of a clergyman. She smiled at such
incongruities. "Next time," she said to Mr. Wilcox, "you
shall come to lunch with me at Mr. Eustace Miles's."
"With pleasure."
"No, you'd hate it," she said, pushing her glass to-
wards him for some more cider. "It's all proteids and
body-buildings, and people come up to you and beg
your pardon, but you have such a beautiful aura."
"A what?"
"Never heard of an aura? Oh, happy, happy man! I
scrub at mine for hours. Nor of an astral plane?"
160
He had heard of astral planes, and censured them.
"Just so. Luckily it was Helen's aura, not mine, and
she had to chaperone it and do the politenesses. I just
sat with my handkerchief in my mouth till the man
went/'
"Funny experiences seem to come to you two girls.
No one's ever asked me about my what d'ye call it?
Perhaps I've not got one."
"You're bound to have one, but it may be such a
terrible colour that no one dares mention it."
"Tell me, though, Miss Schlegel, do you really be-
lieve in the supernatural and all that?"
"Too difficult a question."
"Why's that? Gruy&re or Stilton?"
"Gruy&re, please."
"Better have Stilton."
"Stilton. Because, though I don't believe in auras, and
think Theosophy's only a halfway-house"
" Yet there may be something in it all the same,"
he concluded, with a frown.
"Not even that. It may be halfway in the wrong
direction. I can't explain. I don't believe in all these
fads, and yet I don't like saying that I don't believe in
them."
He seemed unsatisfied, and said: "So you wouldn't
give me your word that you don't hold with astral bodies
and all the rest of it?"
"I could," said Margaret, surprised that the point was
of any importance to him. "Indeed, I will. When I talked
about scrubbing my aura, I was only trying to be funny.
But why do you want this settled?"
"I don't know."
"Now, Mr. Wilcox, you do know."
"Yes, I am," "No, you're not," burst from the lovers
opposite. Margaret was silent for a moment, and then
changed the subject.
"How's your house?"
161
"Much the same as when you honoured it last week/ 7
"I don't mean Ducie Street. Howards End, of
course/'
"Why 'of course'?"
"Can't you turn out your tenant and let it to us?
We're nearly demented."
"Let me think. I wish I could help you. But I thought
you wanted to be in town. One bit of advice: fix your
district, then fix your price, and then don't budge. That's
how I got both Ducie Street and Oniton. I said to myself:
'I mean to be exactly here/ and I was, and Oniton' s a
place in a thousand."
"But I do budge. Gentlemen seem to mesmerize
houses cow them with an eye, and up they come,
trembling. Ladies can't. It's the houses that are mes-
merizing me. I've no control over the saucy things.
Houses are alive. No?"
"I'm out of my depth," he said, and added: "Didn't
you talk rather like that to your office boy?"
"Did I? I mean I did, more or less. I talk the same
way to everyone or try to."
"Yes, I know. And how much do you suppose that
he understood of it?"
"That's his lookout. I don't believe in suiting my con-
versation to my company. One can doubtless hit upon
some medium of exchange that seems to do well
enough, but it's no more like the real thing than money
is like food. There's no nourishment in it. You pass it to
the lower classes, and they pass it back to you, and this
you call 'social intercourse' or 'mutual endeavour/ when
it's mutual priggishness if it's anything. Our friends at
Chelsea don't see this. They say one ought to be at all
costs intelligible, and sacrifice"
"Lower classes," interrupted Mr. Wilcpx, as it were
thrusting his hand into her speech. "Well, you do admit
that there are rich and poor. That's something/'
Margaret could not reply. Was he incredibly stupid,
162
or did he understand her better than she understood
herself?
"You do admit that, if wealth was divided up equally,
in a few years there would be rich and poor again just
the same. The hard-working man would come to the
top, the wastrel sink to the bottom."
"Everyone admits that."
"Your Socialists don't."
"My Socialists do. Yours mayn't; but I strongly sus-
pect yours of being not Socialists, but ninepins which
you have constructed for your own amusement. I can't
imagine any living creature who would bowl over quite
so easily."
He would have resented this had she not been a
woman. But women may say anything it was one of
his holiest beliefs and he only retorted, with a gay
smile: "I don't care. You've made two damaging ad-
missions, and I'm heartily with you in both."
In time they finished lunch, and Margaret, who had
excused herself from the Hippodrome, took her leave.
Evie had scarcely addressed her, and she suspected that
the entertainment had been planned by the father. He
and she were advancing out of their respective families
towards a more intimate acquaintance. It had begun long
ago. She had been his wife's friend, and 7 as such, he
had given her that silver vinaigrette as a memento. It
was pretty of him to have given that vinaigrette, and he
had always preferred her to Helen unlike most men.
But the advance had been astonishing lately. They had
done more in a week than in two years, and were really
beginning to know each other.
She did not forget his promise to sample Eustace
Miles, and asked him as soon as she could secure Tibby
as his chaperon. He came, and partook of body-building
dishes with humility.
Next morning the Schlegels left for Swanage. They
had not succeeded in finding a new home.
163
CHAPTER
18
As they were seated at Aunt Juley's breakfast-table at
The Bays, parrying her excessive hospitality and enjoy-
ing the view of the bay, a letter came for Margaret and
threw her into perturbation. It was from Mr. Wilcox. It
announced an "important change" in his plans. Owing
to Evie's marriage, he had decided to give up his house
in Ducie Street, and was willing to let it on a yearly
tenancy. It was a businesslike letter, and stated frankly
what he would do for them and what he would not do.
Also the rent. If they approved, Margaret was to come
up at once the words were underlined, as is necessary
when dealing with women and to go over the house
with him. If they disapproved, a wire would oblige, as
he should put it into the hands of an agent.
The letter perturbed, because she was not sure what
it meant. If he liked her, if he had manoeuvred to get
her to Simpson's, might this be a manoeuvre to get her
to London, and result in an offer of marriage? She put
it to herself as indelicately as possible, in the hope that
her brain would cry: "Rubbish, you're a self-conscious
fool!" But her brain only tingled a little and was silent,
and for a time she sat gazing at the mincing waves, and
wondering whether the news would seem strange to the
others.
As soon as she began speaking, the sound of her own
voice reassured her. There could be nothing in it. The
replies also were typical, and in the burr of conversation
her fears vanished.
"You needn't go, though" began her hostess.
"I needn't, but hadn't I better? It's really getting
rather serious. We let chance after chance slip, and the
164
end of it is we shall be bundled out bag and baggage
into the street. We don't know what we want, that's the
mischief with us"
"No, we have no real ties," said Helen, helping her-
self to toast.
"Shan't I go up to town today, take the house if it's
the least possible, and then come down by the afternoon
train tomorrow and start enjoying myself. I shall be no
fun to myself or to others until this business is off my
mind."
"But you won't do anything rash, Margaret?"
"There's nothing rash to do."
"Who are the Wilcoxes?" said Tibby, a question that
sounds silly, but was really extremely subtle, as his aunt
found to her cost when she tried to answer it. "I don't
manage the Wilcoxes; I don't see where they come in. "
"No more do I," agreed Helen. "It's funny that we
just don't lose sight of them. Out of all our hotel ac-
quaintances, Mr. Wilcox is the only one who has stuck.
It is now over three years, and we have drifted away
from far more interesting people in that time."
"Interesting people don't get one houses."
"Meg, if you start in your honest-English vein, I shall
throw the treacle at you."
"It's a better vein than the cosmopolitan," said Mar-
garet, getting up. "Now, children, which is it to be? You
know the Ducie Street house. Shall I say yes or shall I
say no? Tibby love which? I'm specially anxious to pin
you both."
"It all depends what meaning you attach to the word
'possi-' "
"It depends on nothing of the sort. Say 'yes/ "
"Say 'no/ "
Then Margaret spoke rather seriously. "I think," she
said, "that our race is degenerating. We cannot settle
even this little thing; what will it be like when we have
to settle a big one?"
165
"It will be as easy as eating," returned Helen.
"I was thinking of Father. How could he settle to
leave Germany as he did, when he had fought for it as
a young man, and all his feelings and friends were Prus-
sian? How could he break loose with patriotism and be-
gin aiming at something else? It would have killed me.
When he was nearly forty he could change countries
and ideals and we, at our age, can't change houses.
It's humiliating."
"Your father may have been able to change coun-
tries," said Mrs. Munt with asperity, "and that may or
may not be a good thing. But he could change houses
no better than you can, in fact, much worse. Never shall
I forget what poor Emily suffered in the move from
Manchester/'
"I knew it," cried Helen. "I told you so. It is the little
things one bungles at. The big, real ones are nothing
when they come."
"Bungle, my dear! You are too little to recollect in
fact, you weren't there. But the furniture was actually
in the vans and on the move before the lease for Wick-
ham Place was signed, and Emily took train with baby
who was Margaret then and the smaller luggage for
London, without so much as knowing where her new
home would be. Getting away from that house may be
hard, but it is nothing to the misery that we all went
through getting you into it."
Helen, with her mouth full, cried:
"And that's the man who beat the Austrians, and the
Danes, and the French, and who beat the Germans that
were inside himself. And we're like him."
"Speak for yourself," said Tibby. "Remember that I
am cosmopolitan, please."
"Helen may be right."
"Of course she's right," said Helen.
Helen might be right, but she did not go up to Lon-
don. Margaret did that. An interrupted holiday is the
166
worst of the minor worries, and one may be pardoned
for feeling morbid when a business letter snatches one
away from the sea and friends. She could not believe
that her father had ever felt the same. Her eyes had been
troubling her lately, so that she could not read in the
train, and it bored her to look at the landscape, which
she had seen but yesterday. At Southampton she
"waved" to Frieda: Frieda was on her way down to join
them at Swanage, and Mrs. Munt had calculated that
their trains would cross. But Frieda was looking the
other way, and Margaret travelled on to town feeling
solitary and old-maidish. How like an old maid to fancy
that Mr. Wilcox was courting her! She had once visited
a spinster poor, silly, and unattractivewhose mania
it was that every man who approached her fell in love.
How Margaret's heart had bled for the deluded thing!
How she had lectured, reasoned, and in despair acqui-
esced! "I may have been deceived by the curate, my
dear, but the young fellow who brings the midday posts
really is fond of me, and has as a matter of fact" It
had always seemed to her the most hideous corner of
old age, yet she might be driven into it herself by the
mere pressure of virginity.
Mr. Wilcox met her at Waterloo himself. She felt cer-
tain that he was not the same as usual; for one thing,
he took offence at everything she said.
"This is awfully kind of you," she began, "but I'm
afraid it's not going to do. The house has not been built
that suits the Schlegel family."
"What! Have you come up determined not to deal?"
"Not exactly."
"Not exactly? In that case, let's be starting."
She lingered to admire the motor, which was new
and a fairer creature than the vermillion giant that had
borne Aunt Juley to her doom three years before.
"Presumably it's very beautiful," she said. "How do
you like it, Crane?"
167
"Come, let's be starting," repeated her host. "How
on earth did you know that my chauffeur was called
Crane?"
"Why, I know Crane: I've been for a drive with Evie
once. I know that you've got a parlour-maid called Mil-
ton. I know all sorts of things."
"Evie!" he echoed in injured tones. "You won't see
her. She's gone out with Cahill. It's no fun, I can tell
you, being left so much alone. I've got my work all day
indeed, a great deal too much of it but when I come
home in the evening, I tell you, I can't stand the house."
"In my absurd way, I'm lonely too," Margaret re-
plied. "It's heart-breaking to leave one's old home. I
scarcely remember anything before Wickham Place, and
Helen and Tibby were born there. Helen says"
"You, too, feel lonely?"
"Horribly. Hullo, Parliament's back!"
Mr. Wilcox glanced at Parliament contemptuously.
The more important ropes of life lay elsewhere. "Yes,
they are talking again," said he. "But you were going
to say"
"Only some rubbish about furniture. Helen says it
alone endures while men and houses perish, and that
in the end the world will be a desert of chairs and so-
fasjust imagine it! rolling through infinity with no one
to sit upon them."
"Your sister always liked her little joke."
"She says 'Yes/ my brother says 'No/ to Ducie
Street. It's no fun helping us, Mr. Wilcox, I assure you."
"You are not as unpractical as you pretend. I shall
never believe it."
Margaret laughed. But she was quite as unpractical.
She could not concentrate on details. Parliament, the
Thames, the irresponsive chauffeur, would flash into the
field of house-hunting, and all demand some comment
or response. It is impossible to see modern life steadily
and see it whole, and she had chosen to see it whole.
168
Mr. Wilcox saw steadily. He never bothered over the
mysterious or the private. The Thames might run inland
from the sea, the chauffeur might conceal all passion
and philosophy beneath his unhealthy skin. They knew
their own business, and he knew his.
Yet she liked being with him. He was not a rebuke,
but a stimulus, and banished morbidity. Some twenty
years her senior, he preserved a gift that she supposed
herself to have already lost not youth's creative power,
but its self-confidence and optimism. He was so sure
that it was a very pleasant world. His complexion was
robust, his hair had receded but not thinned, the thick
moustache and the eyes that Helen had compared to
brandy-balls had an agreeable menace in them, whether
they were turned towards the slums or towards the
stars. Some day in the millennium there may be no
need for his type. At present, homage is due to it from
those who think themselves superior, and who possibly
are.
"At all events, you responded to my telegram
promptly," he remarked.
"Oh, even I know a good thing when I see it."
"I'm glad you don't despise the goods of this world."
"Heavens, no! Only idiots and prigs do that."
"I am glad, very glad," he repeated, suddenly soft-
ening and turning to her, as if the remark had pleased
him. "There is so much cant talked in would-be intel-
lectual circles. I am glad you don't share it. Self-denial
is all very well as a means of strengthening the charac-
ter. But I can't stand those people who run down com-
forts. They have usually some axe to grind. Can you?"
"Comforts are of two kinds," said Margaret, who was
keeping herself in hand "those we can share with oth-
ers, like fire, weather, or music; and those we can't
food, for instance. It depends/'
"I mean reasonable comforts, of course. I shouldn't
like to think that you" He bent nearer; the sentence
169
died unfinished. Margaret's head turned very stupid,
and the inside of it seemed to revolve like the beacon in
a lighthouse. He did not kiss her, for the hour was half
past twelve and the car was passing by the stables of
Buckingham Palace. But the atmosphere was so charged
with emotion that people only seemed to exist on her
account, and she was surprised that Crane did not re-
alize this and turn around. Idiot though she might be,
surely Mr. Wilcox was more how should one put it?
more psychological than usual. Always a good judge of
character for business purposes, he seemed this after-
noon to enlarge his field, and to note qualities outside
neatness, obedience, and decision.
"I want to go over the whole house/' she announced
when they arrived. "As soon as I get back to Swanage,
which will be tomorrow afternoon, I'll talk it over once
more with Helen and Tibby, and wire you 'yes' or
'no/ "
"Right. The dining-room." And they began their sur-
vey.
The dining-room was big, but over-furnished. Chel-
sea would have moaned aloud. Mr. Wilcox had es-
chewed those decorative schemes that wince, and relent,
and refrain, and achieve beauty by sacrificing comfort
and pluck. After so much self-colour and self-denial,
Margaret viewed with relief the sumptuous dado, the
frieze, the gilded wall-paper, amid whose foliage parrots
sang. It would never do with her own furniture, but
those heavy chairs, that immense sideboard loaded with
presentation plate, stood up against its pressure like
men. The room suggested men, and Margaret, keen to
derive the modern capitalist from the warriors and hun-
gers of the past, saw it as an ancient guest-hall, where
the lord sat at meat among his thanes. Even the Bible
the Dutch Bible that Charles had brought back from the
Boer War fell into position. Such a room admitted loot.
170
"Now the entrance-hall."
The entrance-hall was paved.
"Here we fellows smoke."
We fellows smoked in chairs of maroon leather. It was
as if a motor-car had spawned. "Oh, jolly!" said Mar-
garet, sinking into one of them.
"You do like it?" he said, fixing his eyes on her up-
turned face, and surely betraying an almost intimate
note. "It's all rubbish not making oneself comfortable.
Isn't it?"
"Ye-es. Semi-rubbish. Are those Cruikshanks?"
"Gillrays. Shall we go on upstairs?"
"Does all this furniture come from Howards End?"
"The Howards End furniture has all gone to Oni-
ton."
"Does However, I'm concerned with the house, not
the furniture. How big is this smoking-room?"
"Thirty by fifteen. No, wait a minute. Fifteen and a
half."
"Ah, well. Mr. Wilcox, aren't you ever amused at the
solemnity with which we middle classes approach the
subject of houses?"
They proceeded to the drawing-room. Chelsea man-
aged better here. It was sallow and ineffective. One
could visualize the ladies withdrawing to it while then-
lords discussed life's realities below, to the accompani-
ment of cigars. Had Mrs. Wilcox's drawing-room looked
thus at Howards End? Just as this thought entered Mar-
garet's brain, Mr. Wilcox did ask her to be his wife, and
the knowledge that she had been right so overcame her
that she nearly fainted.
But the proposal was not to rank among the world's
great love scenes.
"Miss Schlegel" his voice was firm "I have had
you up on false pretences. I want to speak about a much
more serious matter than a house."
171
Margaret almost answered: "I know 7 '
"Could you be induced to share myis it prob-
able-"
"Oh, Mr. Wilcox!" she interrupted, holding the pi-
ano and averting her eyes. "I see, I see. I will write to
you afterwards if I may."
He began to stammer. "Miss Schlegel Margaret
you don't understand."
"Oh yes! Indeed, yes!" said Margaret.
"I am asking you to be my wife."
So deep already was her sympathy that when he said,
"I am asking you to be my wife," she made herself give
a little start. She must show surprise if he expected it.
An immense joy came over her. It was indescribable. It
had nothing to do with humanity, and most resembled
the all-pervading happiness of fine weather. Fine
weather is due to the sun, but Margaret could think of
no central radiance here. She stood in his drawing-room
happy, and longing to give happiness. On leaving him
she realized that the central radiance had been love.
"You aren't offended, Miss Schlegel?"
"How could I be offended?"
There was a moment's pause. He was anxious to get
rid of her, and she knew it. She had too much intuition
to look at him as he struggled for possessions that money
cannot buy. He desired comradeship and affection, but
he feared them, and she, who had taught herself only
to desire, and could have clothed the struggle with
beauty, held back, and hesitated with him.
"Good-bye," she continued. "You will have a letter
from me I am going back to Swanage tomorrow."
"Thank you."
"Good-bye, and it's you I thank."
"I may order the motor round, mayn't I?"
"That would be most kind."
"I wish I had written instead. Ought I to have writ-
ten?"
172
"Not at all."
"There's just one question"
She shook her head. He looked a little bewildered,
and they parted.
They parted without shaking hands: she had kept the
interview, for his sake, in tints of the quietest grey. Yet
she thrilled with happiness ere she reached her own
house. Others had loved her in the past, if one may
apply to their brief desires so grave a word, but those
others had been "ninnies" young men who had noth-
ing to do, old men who could find nobody better. And
she had often "loved," too, but only so far as the facts
of sex demanded: mere yearnings for the masculine, to
be dismissed for what they were worth, with a smile.
Never before had her personality been touched. She was
not young or very rich, and it amazed her that a man of
any standing should take her seriously. As she sat trying
to do accounts in her empty house, amidst beautiful pic-
tures and noble books, waves of emotion broke, as if a
tide of passion was flowing through the night air. She
shook her head, tried to concentrate her attention, and
failed. In vain did she repeat: "But I've been through
this sort of thing before." She had never been through
it; the big machinery, as opposed to the little, had been
set in motion, and the idea that Mr. Wilcox loved, ob-
sessed her before she came to love him in return.
She would come to no decision yet/ "Oh, sir, this is
so sudden" that prudish phrase exactly expressed her
when her time came. Premonitions are not preparation.
She must examine more closely her own nature and his;
she must talk it over judicially with Helen. It had been
a strange love-scene the central radiance unacknowl-
edged from first to last. She, in his place, would have
said "Ich liebe dich," but perhaps it was not his habit
to open the heart. He might have done it if she had
pressed him as a matter of duty, perhaps; England ex-
pects every man to open his heart once; but the effort
173
would have jarred him, and never, if she could avoid it,
should he lose those defences that he had chosen to raise
against the world. He must never be bothered with emo-
tional talk, or with a display of sympathy. He was an
elderly man now, and it would be futile and impudent
to correct him.
Mrs. Wilcox strayed in and out, ever a welcome ghost;
surveying the scene, thought Margaret, without one hint
of bitterness.
CHAPTER
19
If one wanted to show a foreigner England, perhaps the
wisest course would be to take him to the final section
of the Purbeck Hills, and stand him on their summit, a
few miles to the east of Corfe. Then system after system
of our island would roll together under his feet. Beneath
him is the valley of the Frome, and all the wild lands
that come tossing down from Dorchester, black and
gold, to mirror their gorse in the expanses of Poole. The
valley of the Stour is beyond, unaccountable stream,
dirty at Blandf ord, pure at Wimborne the Stour, sliding
out of fat fields, to marry the Avon beneath the tower
of Christchurch. The valley of the Avoninvisible, but
far to the north the trained eye may see Clearbury Ring
that guards it, and the imagination may leap beyond
that on to Salisbury Plain itself, and beyond the Plain to
all the glorious downs of Central England. Nor is Sub-
urbia absent. Bournemouth's ignoble coast cowers to the
right, heralding the pinetrees that mean, for all their
beauty, red houses and the Stock Exchange, and extend
to the gates of London itself. So tremendous is the City's
trail! But the cliffs of Freshwater it shall never touch,
and the island will guard the Island's purity till the end
174
of time. Seen from the west, the Wight is beautiful be-
yond all laws of beauty. It is as if a fragment of England
floated forward to greet the foreigner chalk of our
chalk, turf of our turf, epitome of what will follow. And
behind the fragment lies Southampton, hostess to the
nations, and Portsmouth, a latent fire, and all around it,
with double and treble collision of tides, swirls the sea.
How many villages appear in this view! How many cas-
tles! How many churches, vanished or triumphant! How
many ships, railways, and roads! What incredible vari-
ety of men working beneath that lucent sky to what final
end! The reason fails, like a wave on the Swanage beach;
the imagination swells, spreads, and deepens, until it
become geographic and encircles England.
So Frieda Mosebach, now Frau Architect Liesecke,
and mother to her husband's baby, was brought up to
these heights to be impressed, and, after a prolonged
gaze, she said that the hills were more swelling here than
in Pomerania, which was true, but did not seem to Mrs.
Munt apposite. Poole Harbour was dry, which led her
to praise the absence of muddy foreshore at Friedrich
Wilhelms Bad, Riigen, where beech-trees hang over the
tideless Baltic, and cows may contemplate the brine.
Rather unhealthy Mrs. Munt thought this would be, wa-
ter being safer when it moved about.
"And your English lakes Vindermere, Grasmere
are they, then, unhealthy?"
"No, Frau Liesecke; but that is because they are fresh
water, and different. Salt water ought to have tides, and
go up and down a great deal, or else it smells. Look, for
instance, at an aquarium/'
"An aquarium! Oh, Meesis Munt, you mean to tell me
that fresh aquariums stink less than salt? Why, when
Victor, my brother-in-law, collected many tadpoles"
"You are not to say 'stink/ " interrupted Helen; "at
least, you may say it, but you must pretend you are
being funny while you say it."
"Then 'smell/ And the mud of your Pool down
there does it not smell, or may I say 'stink, ha, ha'?"
"There always has been mud in Poole Harbour/ 7 said
Mrs. Munt, with a slight frown. "The rivers bring it
down, and a most valuable oyster-fishery depends upon
it."
"Yes, that is so," conceded Frieda; and another in-
ternational incident was closed.
" 'Bournemouth is/ " resumed their hostess, quot-
ing a local rhyme to which she was much attached
" 'Bournemouth is, Poole was, and Swanage is to be the
most important town of all and biggest of the three/ "
Now, Frau Liesecke, I have shown you Bournemouth,
and I have shown you Poole, so let us walk backward a
little, and look down again at Swanage."
"Aunt Juley, wouldn't that be Meg's train?"
A tiny puff of smoke had been circling the harbour,
and now was bearing southwards towards them over
the black and the gold.
"Oh, dearest Margaret, I do hope she won't be over-
tired."
"Oh, I do wonder I do wonder whether she's taken
the house."
"I hope she hasn't been hasty."
"So do I oh, so do I."
"Will it be as beautiful as Wickham Place?" Frieda
asked,
"I should think it would. Trust Mr. Wilcox for doing
himself proud. All those Ducie Street houses are beau-
tiful in their modern way, and I can't think why he
doesn't keep on with it. But it's really for Evie that he
went there, and now that Evie's going to be married"
"Ah!"
"You've never seen Miss Wilcox, Frieda. How ab-
surdly matrimonial you are!"
"But sister to that Paul?"
176
"Yes."
"And to that Charles," said Mrs. Munt with feeling.
"Oh, Helen, Helen, what a time that was!"
Helen laughed. "Meg and I haven't got such tender
hearts. If there's a chance of a cheap house, we go for
it."
"Now look, Frau Liesecke, at my niece's train. You
see, it is coming towards us coining, coming; and,
when it gets to Corfe, it will actually go through the
downs, on which we are standing, so that, if we walk
over, as I suggested, and look down on Swanage, we
shall see it coining on the other side. Shall we?"
Frieda assented, and in a few minutes they had
crossed the ridge and exchanged the greater view for the
lesser. Rather a dull valley lay below, backed by the
slope of the coastward downs. They were looking across
the Isle of Purbeck and on to Swanage, soon to be the
most important town of all, and ugliest of the three.
Margaret's train reappeared as promised, and was
greeted with approval by her aunt. It came to a stand-
still in the middle distance, and there it had been
planned that Tibby should meet her, and drive her, and
a tea-basket, up to join them.
"You see," continued Helen to her cousin, "the Wil-
coxes collect houses as your Victor collects tadpoles.
They have, one, Ducie Street; two, Howards End, where
my great rumpus was; three, a country seat in Shrop-
shire; four, Charles has a house in Hilton; and five, an-
other near Epsom; and six, Evie will have a house when
she marries, and probably a pied-a-terre in the country
which makes seven. Oh yes, and Paul a hut in Africa
makes eight. I wish we could get Howards End. That
was something like a dear little house! Didn't you think
so, Aunt Juley?"
"I had too much to do, dear, to look at it," said Mrs.
Munt, with a gracious dignity. "I had everything to set-
177
tie and explain, and Charles Wilcox to keep in his place
besides. It isn't likely I should remember much. I just
remember having lunch in your bedroom."
"Yes, so do I. But, oh dear, dear, how dead it all
seems! And in the autumn there began this anti-Pauline
movement you, and Frieda, and Meg, and Mrs Wilcox,
all obsessed with the idea that I might yet marry Paul."
"You yet may," said Frieda despondently.
Helen shook her head. "The Great Wilcox Peril will
never return. If I'm certain of anything, it's of that."
"One is certain of nothing but the truth of one's own
emotions/'
The remark fell damply on the conversation. But
Helen slipped her arm round her cousin, somehow lik-
ing her the better for making it. It was not an original
remark, nor had Frieda appropriated it passionately, for
she had a patriotic rather than a philosophic mind. Yet
it betrayed that interest in the universal which the av-
erage Teuton possesses and the average Englishman
does not. It was, however illogically, the good, the
beautiful, the true, as opposed to the respectable, the
pretty, the adequate. It was a landscape of Bocklin's be-
side a landscape of Leader's, strident and ill-considered,
but quivering into supernatural life. It sharpened ideal-
ism, stirred the soul. It may have been a bad preparation
for what followed.
"Look!" cried Aunt Juley, hurrying away from gen-
eralities over the narrow summit of the down. "Stand
where I stand, and you will see the pony-cart coming. I
see the pony-cart coming."
They stood and saw the pony-cart coming. Margaret
and Tibby were presently seen coming in it. Leaving the
outskirts of Swanage, it drove for a little through the
budding lanes, and then began the ascent.
"Have you got the house?" they shouted, long be-
fore she could possibly hear.
Helen ran down to meet her. The highroad passed
178
over a saddle, and a track went thence at right angles
along the ridge of the down.
"Have you got the house?"
Margaret shook her head.
"Oh, what a nuisance? So we're as we were?"
"Not exactly."
She got out, looking tired.
"Some mystery," said Tibby. "We are to be enlight-
ened presently."
Margaret came dose up to her and whispered that she
had had a proposal of marriage from Mr. Wilcox.
Helen was amused. She opened the gate on to the
downs so that her brother might lead the pony through.
"It's just like a widower," she remarked. "They've
cheek enough for anything, and invariably select one of
their first wife's friends."
Margaret's face flashed despair.
"That type" She broke off with a cry. "Meg, not
anything wrong with you?"
"Wait one minute," said Margaret, whispering al-
ways.
"But you've never conceivably you've never" She
pulled herself together. "Tibby, hurry up through; I
can't hold this gate indefinitely. Aunt Juley! I say, Aunt
Juley, make the tea, will you, and Frieda; we've got to
talk houses, and I'll come on afterwards." And then,
turning her face to her sister's, she burst into tears.
Margaret was stupefied. She heard herself saying,
"Oh, really" She felt herself touched with a hand that
trembled.
"Don't," sobbed Helen, "don't, don't, Meg, don't!"
She seemed incapable of saying any other word. Mar-
garet, trembling herself, led her forward up the road, till
they strayed through another gate on to the down.
"Don't, don't do such a thing! I tell you not to don't!
Iknow-don't!"
"What do you know?"
179
"Panic and emptiness/ 7 sobbed Helen. "Don't!"
Then Margaret thought: "Helen is a little selfish. I
have never behaved like this when there has seemed a
chance of her marrying." She said: "But we would still
see each other very often, and"
"It's not a thing like that," sobbed Helen. And she
broke right away and wandered distractedly upwards,
stretching her hands towards the view and crying.
"What's happened to you?" called Margaret, follow-
ing through the wind that gathers at sundown on the
northern slopes of hills. "But it's stupid!" And sud-
denly stupidity seized her, and the immense landscape
was blurred. But Helen turned back.
"Meg-"
'I don't know what's happened to either of us," said
Margaret, wiping her eyes. "We must both have gone
mad." Then Helen wiped hers, and they even laughed
a little.
"Look here, sit down."
"All right; I'll sit down if you'll sit down."
"There." (One kiss.) "Now, whatever, whatever is
the matter?"
"I do mean what I said. Don't; it wouldn't do."
"Oh, Helen, stop saying 'don't'! It's ignorant. It's as
if your head wasn't out of the slime. 'Don't' is probably
what Mrs. Bast says all the day to Mr. Bast."
Helen was silent.
"Well?"
"Tell me about it first, and meanwhile perhaps I'll
have got my head out of the slime."
"That's better. Well, where shall I begin? When I ar-
rived at Waterloo no, I'll go back before that, because
I'm anxious you should know everything from the first.
The 'first' was about ten days ago. It was the day Mr.
Bast came to tea and lost his temper. I was defending
him, and Mr. Wilcox became jealous about me, however
180
slightly. I thought it was the involuntary thing, which
men can't help any more than we can. You know at
least, I know in my own case when a man has said to
me: 'So-and-so's a pretty girl/ I am seized with a mo-
mentary sourness against So-and-so, and long to tweak
her ear. It's a tiresome feeling, but not an important
one, and one easily manages it. But it wasn't only this
in Mr. Wilcox's case, I gather now."
"Then you love him?"
Margaret considered. "It is wonderful knowing that
a real man cares for you," she said. "The mere fact of
that grows more tremendous. Remember, I've known
and liked him steadily for nearly three years."
"But loved him?"
Margaret peered into her past. It is pleasant to ana-
lyze feelings while they are still only feelings, and
unembodied in the social fabric. With her arm round
Helen, and her eyes shifting over the view, as if this
county or that could reveal the secret of her own heart,
she meditated honestly, and said: "No."
"But you will?"
"Yes," said Margaret, "of that I'm pretty sure. In-
deed, I began the moment he spoke to me."
"And have settled to marry him?"
"I had, but am wanting a long tajk about it now. What
is it against him, Helen? You must try and say."
Helen, in her turn, looked outwards. "It is ever since
Paul," she said finally.
"But what has Mr. Wilcox to do with Paul?"
"But he was there, they were all there that morning
when I came down to breakfast, and saw that Paul was
frightened the man who loved me frightened and all
his paraphernalia fallen, so that I knew it was impossi-
ble, because personal relations are the important thing
for ever and ever, and not this outer life of telegrams
and anger/'
181
She poured the sentence forth in one breath, but her
sister understood it, because it touched on thoughts that
were familiar between them.
"That's foolish. In the first place, I disagree about the
outer life. Well, we've often argued that. The real point
is that there is the widest gulf between my love-making
and yours. Yours was romance; mine will be prose. I'm
not running it down a very good kind of prose, but
well considered, well thought out. For instance, I know
all Mr. Wilcox's faults. He's afraid of emotion. He cares
too much about success, too little about the past. His
sympathy lacks poetry, and so isn't sympathy really. I'd
even say" she looked at the shining lagoons "that,
spiritually, he's not as honest as I am. Doesn't that sat-
isfy you?"
"No, it doesn't," said Helen. "It makes me feel worse
and worse. You must be mad."
Margaret made a movement of irritation.
"I don't intend him, or any man or any woman, to
be all my life good heavens, no! There are heaps of
things in me that he doesn't, and shall never, under-
stand."
Thus she spoke before the wedding ceremony and
the physical union, before the astonishing glass shade
had fallen that interposes between married couples and
the world. She was to keep her independence more than
do most women as yet. Marriage was to alter her for-
tunes rather than her character, and she was not far
wrong in boasting that she understood her future hus-
band. Yet he did alter her character a little. There was
an unforeseen surprise, a cessation of the winds and
odours of life, a social pressure that would have her
think conjugally.
"So with him," she continued. "There are heaps of
things in him more especially things that he does that
will always be hidden from me. He has all those public
qualities which you so despise and enable all this "
182
She waved her hand at the landscape, which confirmed
anything. "If Wilcoxes hadn't worked and died in En-
gland for thousands of years, you and I couldn't sit here
without having our throats cut. There would be no
trains, no ships to carry us literary people about in, no
fields even. Just savagery. No perhaps not even that.
Without their spirit, life might never have moved out of
protoplasm. More and more do I refuse to draw my in-
come and sneer at those who guarantee it. There are
times when it seems to me"
"And to me, and to all women. So one kissed Paul."
"That's brutal," said Margaret. "Mine is an abso-
lutely different case. I've thought things out."
"It makes no difference thinking things out. They
come to the same."
"Rubbish!"
There was a long silence, during which the tide re-
turned into Poole Harbour. "One would lose some-
thing," murmured Helen, apparently to herself. The
water crept over the mud-flats towards the gorse and
the blackened heather. Branksea Island lost its immense
foreshores, and became a sombre episode of trees. Frome
was forced inwards towards Dorchester, Stour against
Wimborne, Avon towards Salisbury, and over the im-
mense displacement the sun presided, leading it to tri-
umph ere he sank to rest. England was alive, throbbing
through all her estuaries, crying for joy through the
mouths of all her gulls, and the north wind, with con-
trary motion, blew stronger against her rising seas. What
did it mean? For what end are her fair complexities, her
changes of soil, her sinuous coast? Does she belong to
those who have moulded her and made her feared by
other lands, or to those who had added nothing to her
power, but have somehow seen her, seen the whole is-
land at once, lying as a jewel in a silver sea, sailing as a
ship of souls, with all the brave world's fleet accompa-
nying her towards eternity?
CHAPTER
20
Margaret had often wondered at the disturbance that
takes place in the world' s waters when Love, who seems
so tiny a pebble, slips in. Whom does Love concern be-
yond the beloved and the lover? Yet his impact deluges
a hundred shores. No doubt the disturbance is really the
spirit of the generations, welcoming the new generation,
and chafing against the ultimate Fate, who holds all the
seas in the palm of her hand. But Love cannot under-
stand this. He cannot comprehend another's infinity; he
is conscious only of his own flying sunbeam, falling
rose, pebble that asks for one quiet plunge below the
fretting interplay of space and time. He knows that he
will survive at the end of things, and be gathered by
Fate as a jewel from the slime, and be handed with ad-
miration round the assembly of the gods. "Men did pro-
duce this/ 7 they will say, and, saying, they will give
men immortality. But meanwhile what agitations
meanwhile! The foundations of Property and Propriety
are laid bare, twin rocks; Family Pride flounders to the
surface, puffing and blowing, and refusing to be com-
forted; Theology, vaguely ascetic, gets up a nasty ground
swell. Then the lawyers are aroused cold brood and
creep out of their holes. They do what they can; they
tidy up Property and Propriety, reassure Theology and
Family Pride. Half-guineas are poured on the troubled
waters, the lawyers creep back, and, it all has gone well,
Love joins one man and woman together in Matrimony.
Margaret had expected the disturbance, and was not
irritated by it. For a sensitive woman she had steady
nerves, and could bear with the incongruous and the
grotesque; and, besides, there was nothing excessive
184
about her love-affair. Good-humour was the dominant
note of her relations with Mr. Wilcox, or, as I must now
call him, Henry. Henry did not encourage romance, and
she was no girl to fidget for it. An acquaintance had
become a lover, might become a husband, but would
retain all that she had noted in the acquaintance; and
love must confirm an old relation rather than reveal a
new one.
In this spirit she promised to marry him.
He was in Swanage on 'the morrow, bearing the
engagement-ring. They greeted one another with a
hearty cordiality that impressed Aunt Juley. Henry dined
at The Bays, but had engaged a bedroom in the principal
hotel: he was one of those men who know the principal
hotel by instinct. After dinner he asked Margaret if she
wouldn't care for a turn on the Parade. She accepted,
and could not repress a little tremor; it would be her
first real love scene. But as she put on her hat she burst
out laughing. Love was so unlike the article served up
in books: the joy, though genuine, was different; the
mystery an unexpected mystery. For one thing, Mr. Wil-
cox still seemed a stranger.
For a time they talked about the ring; then she said:
"Do you remember the Embankment at Chelsea? It
can't be ten days ago."
"Yes," he said, laughing. "And you and your sister
were head and ears deep in some Quixotic scheme. Ah
well!"
"I little thought then, certainly. Did you?"
"I don't know about that; I shouldn't like to say."
"Why, was it earlier?" she cried. "Did you think of
me this way earlier! How extraordinarily interesting,
Henry! Tell me."
But Henry had no intention of telling. Perhaps he
could not have told, for his mental states became ob-
scure as soon as he had passed through them. He mis-
liked the very word "interesting," connoting it with
185
wasted energy and even with morbidity. Hard facts were
enough for him.
"I didn't think of it," she pursued. "No; when you
spoke to me in the drawing-room, that was practically
the first. It was all so different from what it's supposed
to be. On the stage, or in books, a proposal is how
shall I put it? a full blown affair; a kind of bouquet; it
loses its literal meaning. But in life a proposal really is a
proposal 7 '
"By the way"
"a suggestion, a seed," she concluded; and the
thought flew away into darkness.
"I was thinking, if you didn't mind, that we ought to
spend this evening in a business talk; there will be so
much to settle."
"I think so too. Tell me, in the first place, how did
you get on with Tibby?"
"With your brother?"
"Yes, during cigarettes."
"Oh, very well."
"I am so glad," she answered, a little surprised.
"What did you talk about? Me, presumably."
"About Greece too."
"Greece was a very good card, Henry. Tibby 's only
a boy still, and one has to pick and choose subjects a
little. Well done."
"I was telling him I have shares in a currant-farm
near Calamata."
"What a delightful thing to have shares in! Can't we
go there for our honeymoon?"
"What to do?"
"To eat the currants. And isn't there marvellous sce-
nery?"
"Moderately, but it's not the kind of place one could
possibly go to with a lady."
"Why not?"
"No hotels."
186
"Some ladies do without hotels. Are you aware that
Helen and I have walked alone over the Apennines, with
our luggage on our backs?"
' 'I wasn't aware, and, if I can manage it, you will
never do such a thing again."
She said more gravely: "You haven't found time for
a talk with Helen yet, I suppose?"
"No."
"Do, before you go. I am so anxious you two should
be friends."
"Your sister and I have always hit it off," he said
negligently. "But we're drifting away from our busi-
ness. Let me begin at the beginning. You know that Evie
is going to marry Percy Cahill."
"Dolly's uncle."
"Exactly. The girl's madly in love with him. A very
good sort of fellow, but he demands and rightly a
suitable provision with her. And in the second place,
you will naturally understand, there is Charles. Before
leaving town, I wrote Charles a very careful letter. You
see, he has an increasing family and increasing ex-
penses, and the I. and W. A. is nothing particular just
now, though capable of development."
"Poor fellow!" murmured Margaret, looking out to
sea, and not understanding.
"Charles being the elder son, some day Charles will
have Howards End; but I am anxious, in my own hap-
piness, not to be unjust to others."
"Of course not," she began, and then gave a little
cry. "You mean money. How stupid I am! Of course
not!"
Oddly enough, he winced a little at the word. "Yes.
Money, since you put it so frankly. I am determined to
be just to all just to you, just to them. I am determined
that my children shall have no case against me."
"Be generous to them," she said sharply. "Bother
justice!"
"I am determined and have already written to
Charles to that effect "
"But how much have you got?"
"What?"
"How much have you a year? I've six hundred."
"My income?"
"Yes. We must begin with how much you have, be-
fore we can settle how much you can give Charles.
Justice, and even generosity, depend on that."
"I must say you're a downright young woman," he
observed, patting her arm and laughing a little. "What
a question to spring on a fellow!"
"Don't you know your income? Or don't you want
to tell it me?"
//T //
"That's all right" now she patted him "don't tell
me. I don't want to know. I can do the sum just as well
by proportion. Divide your income into ten parts. How
many parts would you give to Evie, how many to
Charles, how many to Paul?"
"The fact is, my dear, I hadn't any intention of both-
ering you with details. I only wanted to let you know
that well, that something must be done for the others,
and you've understood me perfectly, so let's pass on to
the next point."
"Yes, we've settled that," said Margaret, undis-
turbed by his strategic blunderings. "Go ahead; give
away all you can, bearing in mind I've a clear six hun-
dred. What a mercy it is to have all this money about
one!"
"We've none too much, I assure you; you're marry-
ing a poor man."
"Helen wouldn't agree with me here," she contin-
ued. "Helen daren't slang the rich, being rich herself,
but she would like to. There's an odd notion, that I
haven't yet got hold of, running about at the back of
her brain, that poverty is somehow 'real/ She dislikes
188
all organization, and probably confuses wealth with the
technique of wealth. Sovereigns in a stocking wouldn't
bother her; cheques do. Helen is too relentless. One
can't deal in her high-handed manner with the world."
"There's this other point, and then I must go back to
my hotel and write some letters. What's to be done now
about the house in Ducie Street?"
"Keep it on at least, it depends. When do you want
to marry me?"
She raised her voice, as too often, and some youths,
who were also taking the evening air, overheard her.
"Getting a bit hot, eh?" said one. Mr. Wilcox turned on
them, and said sharply: "I say!" There was silence.
"Take care I don't report you to the police." They
moved away quietly enough, but were only biding their
time, and the rest of the conversation was punctuated
by peals of ungovernable laughter.
Lowering his voice and infusing a hint of reproof into
it, he said: "Evie will probably be married in September.
We could scarcely think of anything before then."
"The earlier trie nicer, Henry. Females are not sup-
posed to say such things, but the earlier the nicer."
"How about September for us too?" he asked, rather
dryly.
"Right. Shall we go into Ducie Street ourselves in
September? Or shall we try to bounce Helen and Tibby
into it? That's rather an idea. They are so unbusiness-
like, we could make them do anything by judicious
management. Look here yes. We'll do that. And we
ourselves could live at Howards End or Shropshire."
He blew out his cheeks. "Heavens! how you women
do fly round! My head's in a whirl. Point by point, Mar-
garet. Howards End's impossible. I let it to Hamar Bryce
on a three years' agreement last March. Don't you re-
member? Oniton. Well, that is much, much too far away
to rely on entirely. You will be able to be down there
entertaining a certain amount, but we must have a house
189
within easy reach of Town. Only Ducie Street has huge
drawbacks. There's a mews behind."
Margaret could not help laughing. It was the first she
had heard of the mews behind Ducie Street. When she
was a possible tenant it had suppressed itself, not con-
sciously, but automatically. The breezy Wilcox manner,
though genuine, lacked the clearness of vision that is
imperative for truth. When Henry lived in Ducie Street,
he remembered the mews; when he tried to let, he for-
got it; and if anyone had remarked that the mews must
be either there or not, he would have felt annoyed, and
afterwards have found some opportunity of stigmatizing
the speaker as academic. So does my grocer stigmatize
me when I complain of the quality of his sultanas, and
he answers in one breath that they are the best sultanas,
and how can I expect the best sultanas at that price? It
is a flaw inherent in the business mind, and Margaret
may do well to be tender to it, considering all that the
business mind has done for England.
"Yes, in summer especially, the mews is a serious
nuisance. The smoking-room, too, is an abominable lit-
tle den. The house opposite has been taken by operatic
people. Ducie Street's going down, it's my private opin-
ion."
"How sad! It's only a few years since they built those
pretty houses."
"Shows things are moving. Good for trade."
"I hate this continual flux of London. It is an epitome
of us at our worsteternal formlessness; all the quali-
ties, good, bad, and indifferent, streaming away-
streaming, streaming for ever. That's why I dread it so.
I mistrust rivers, even in scenery. Now, the sea"
"High tide, yes."
"Hoy toid" from the promenading youths.
"And these are the men to whom we give the vote,"
observed Mr. Wilcox, omitting to add that they were
also the men to whom he gave work as clerks work
190
that scarcely encouraged them to grow into other men.
"However, they have their own lives and interests. Let's
get on."
He turned as he spoke, and prepared to see her back
to The Bays. The business was over. His hotel was in
the opposite direction, and if he accompanied her his
letters would be late for the post. She implored him not
to come, but he was obdurate.
"A nice beginning, if your aunt saw you slip in
alone!"
"But I always do go about alone. Considering I've
walked over the Apennines, it's common sense. You will
make me so angry. I don't the least take it as a compli-
ment."
He laughed, and lit a cigar. "It isn't meant as a com-
pliment, my dear. I just won't have you going about in
the dark. Such people about too! It's dangerous."
"Can't I look after myself? I do wish"
"Come along, Margaret; no wheedling."
A younger woman might have resented his masterly
ways, but Margaret had too firm a grip of life to make a
fuss. She was, in her own way, as masterly. If he was a
fortress she was a mountain peak, whom all might tread,
but whom the snows made nightly virginal. Disdaining
the heroic outfit, excitable in her methods, garrulous,
episodical, shrill, she misled her lover much as she had
misled her aunt. He mistook her fertility for weakness.
He supposed her "as clever as they make 'em," but no
more, not realizing that she was penetrating to the
depths of his soul, and approving of what she found
there.
And if insight were sufficient, if the inner life were
the whole of life, their happiness has been assured.
They walked ahead briskly. The parade and the road
after it were well lighted, but it was darker in Aunt Ju-
ley's garden. As they were going up by the side-paths,
through some rhododendrons, Mr. Wilcox, who was in
191
front, said "Margaret" rather huskily, turned, dropped
his cigar, and took her in his arms.
She was startled, and nearly screamed, but recovered
herself at once, and kissed with genuine love the lips
that were pressed against her own. It was their first kiss,
and when it was over he saw her safely to the door and
rang the bell for her, but disappeared into the night be-
fore the maid answered it. On looking back, the incident
displeased her. It was so isolated. Nothing in their pre-
vious conversation had heralded it, and, worse still, no
tenderness had ensued. If a man cannot lead up to pas-
sion, he can at all events lead down from it, and she had
hoped, after her complaisance, for some interchange of
gentle words. But he had hurried away as if ashamed,
and for an instant she was reminded of Helen and Paul.
CHAPTER
21
Charles had just been scolding his Dolly. She deserved
the scolding, and had bent before it, but her head,
though bloody, was unsubdued, and her chirrupings
began to mingle with his retreating thunder.
"You've woken the baby. I knew you would. (Rum-
ti-foo, Rackety-tackety-Tompkin!) I'm not responsible for
what Uncle Percy does, nor for anybody else or any-
thing, so there!"
"Who asked him while I was away? Who asked my
sister down to meet him? Who sent them out in the mo-
tor day after day?"
"Charles, that reminds me of some poem."
"Does it indeed? We shall all be dancing to a very
different music presently. Miss Schlegel has fairly got us
on toast."
192
"I could simply scratch that woman's eyes out, and
to say it's my fault is most unfair/'
"It's your fault, and five months ago you admitted
it."
"I didn't."
"You did."
"Tootle, tootle, playing on the pootle!" exclaimed
Dolly, suddenly devoting herself to the child.
"It's all very well to turn the conversation, but Father
would never have dreamt of marrying as long as Evie
was there to make him comfortable. But you must needs
start match-making. Besides, CahilTs too old."
"Of course, if you're going to be rude to Uncle
Percy-"
"Miss Schlegel always meant to get hold of Howards
End, and, thanks to you, she's got it."
"I call the way you twist things round and make
them hang together most unfair. You couldn't have
been nastier if you'd caught me flirting. Could he, did-
dums?"
"We're in a bad hole, and must make the best of it.
I shall answer the pater's letter civilly. He's evidently
anxious to do the decent thing. But I do not intend to
forget these Schlegels in a hurry. As long as they're on
their best behaviour Dolly, are you listening? we'll
behave, too. But if I find them giving themselves airs,
or monopolizing my father, or at all ill-treating him, or
worrying him with their artistic beastliness, I intend to
put my foot down, yes, firmly. Taking my mother's
place! Heaven knows what poor old Paul will say when
the news reaches him."
The interlude doses. It has taken place in Charles's
garden at Hilton. He and Dolly are sitting in deck-chairs,
and their motor is regarding them placidly from its ga-
rage across the lawn. A short-frocked edition of Charles
also regards them placidly; a perambulator edition is
squeaking; a third edition is expected shortly. Nature is
turning out Wilcoxes in this peaceful abode, so that they
may inherit the earth.
CHAPTER
22
Margaret greeted her lord with peculiar tenderness on
the morrow. Mature as he was, she might yet be able to
help him to the building of the rainbow bridge that
should connect the prose in us with the passion. With-
out it we are meaningless fragments, half monks, half
beasts, unconnected arches that have never joined into
a man. With it love is born, and alights on the highest
curve, glowing against the grey, sober against the fire.
Happy the man who sees from either aspect the glory
of these outspread wings. The roads of his soul lie clear,
and he and his friends shall find easy going.
It was hard going in the road of Mr. Wilcox's soul.
From boyhood he had neglected them. "I am not a fel-
low who bothers about my own inside." Outwardly he
was cheerful, reliable, and brave; but within, all had re-
verted to chaos, ruled, so far as it was ruled at all, by
an incomplete asceticism. Whether as boy, husband, or
widower, he had always the sneaking belief that bodily
passion is bad, a belief that is desirable only when held
passionately. Religion had confirmed him. The words
that were read aloud on Sunday to him and to other
respectable men were the words that had once kindled
the t souls of St. Catharine and St. Francis into a white-
hot hatred of the carnal. He could not be as the saints
and love the Infinite with a seraphic ardour, but he could
be a little ashamed of loving a wife. "Amabat, amare
timebat." And it was here that Margaret hoped to help
him.
194
It did not seem so difficult. She need trouble him with
no gift of her own. She would only point out the sal-
vation that was latent in his own soul, and in the soul
of every man. Only connect! That was the whole of her
sermon. Only connect the prose and the passion, and
both will be exalted, and human love will be seen at its
height. Live in fragments no longer. Only connect, and
the beast and the monk, robbed of the isolation that is
life to either, will die.
Nor was the message difficult to give. It need not take
the form of a good "talking/ 7 By quiet indications the
bridge would be built and span their lives with beauty.
But she failed. For there was one quality in Henry for
which she was never prepared, however much she re-
minded herself of it: his obtuseness. He simply did not
notice things, and there was no more to be said. He
never noticed that Helen and Frieda were hostile, or that
Tibby was not interested in currant plantations; he never
noticed the lights and shades that exist in the greyest
conversation, the finger-posts, the milestones, the colli-
sions, the illimitable views. Once on another occa-
sionshe scolded him about it. He was puzzled, but
replied with a laugh: "My motto is Concentrate. I've no
intention of frittering away my strength on that sort of
thing." "It isn't frittering away the strength," she pro-
tested. "It's enlarging the space in which you may be
strong." He answered: "You're a dever little woman,
but my motto's Concentrate." And this morning he con-
centrated with a vengeance.
They met in the rhododendrons of yesterday. In the
daylight the bushes were inconsiderable and the path
was bright in the morning sun. She was with Helen,
who had been ominously quiet since the affair was set-
tled. "Here we all are!" she cried, and took him by one
hand, retaining her sister's in the other.
"Here we are. Good morning, Helen."
Helen replied: "Good morning, Mr. Wilcox."
195
"Henry, she has had such a nice letter from the queer,
cross boy. Do you remember him? He had a sad mous-
tache, but the back of his head was young/'
"I have had a letter too. Not a nice one I want to
talk it over with you": for Leonard Bast was nothing to
him now that she had given him her word; the triangle
of sex was broken for ever.
"Thanks to your hint, he's clearing out of the Por-
phyrion."
"Not a bad business, that Porphyrion," he said ab-
sently, as he took his own letter out of his pocket.
"Not a bad" she exclaimed, dropping his hand.
"Surely, on Chelsea Embankment"
"Here's our hostess. Good morning, Mrs. Munt. Fine
rhododendrons. Good morning, Frau Liesecke; we
manage to grow flowers in England, don't we?"
"Not a bad business?"
"No. My letter's about Howards End. Bryce has been
ordered abroad, and wants to sublet it. I am far from
sure that I shall give him permission. There was no
clause in the agreement. In my opinion, subletting is a
mistake. If he can find me another tenant whom I con-
sider suitable, I may cancel the agreement. Morning,
Schlegel. Don't you think that's better than subletting?"
Helen had dropped her hand now, and he had steered
her past the whole party to the seaward side of the
house. Beneath them was the bourgeois little bay, which
must have yearned all through the centuries for just such
a watering-place as Swanage to be built on its margin.
The waves were colourless, and the Bournemouth
steamer gave a further touch of insipidity, drawn up
against the pier and hooting wildly for excursionists.
"When there is a sublet I find that damage"
"Do excuse me, but about the Porphyrion. I don't
feel easy might I just bother you, Henry?"
Her manner was so serious that he stopped and asked
her a little sharply what she wanted.
196
"You said on Chelsea Embankment, surely, that it
was a bad concern, so we advised this clerk to clear out.
He writes this morning that he's taken our advice, and
now you say it's not a bad concern."
"A clerk who dears out of any concern, good or bad,
without securing a berth somewhere else first, is a fool,
and I've no pity for him."
"He has not done that. He's going into a bank in
Camden Town, he says. The salary's much lower, but
he hopes to managea branch of Dempster's Bank. Is
that all right?"
"Dempster! My goodness me, yes."
"More right than the Porphyrion?"
"Yes, yes, yes; safe as houses safer."
"Very many thanks. I'm sorry if you sublet?"
"If he sublets, I shan't have the same control. In the-
ory there should be no more damage done at Howards
End; in practice there will be. Things may be done for
which no money can compensate. For instance, I
shouldn't want that fine wych-elm spoilt. It hangs-
Margaret, we must go and see the old place some time.
It's pretty in its way. We'll motor down and have lunch
with Charles."
"I should enjoy that," said Margaret bravely.
"What about next Wednesday?"
"Wednesday? No, I couldn't well do that. Aunt Juley
expects us to stop here another week at least."
"But you can give that up now."
"Er no," said Margaret, after a moment's thought.
"Oh, that'll be all right. I'll speak to her."
"This visit is a high solemnity. My aunt counts on it
year after year. She turns the house upside down for
us; she invites our special friends she scarcely knows
Frieda, and we can't leave her on her hands. I missed
one day, and she would be so hurt if I didn't stay the
full ten."
"But I'll say a word to her. Don't you bother."
"Henry, I won't go. Don't bully me."
"You want to see the house, though?"
"Very much-rl've heard so much about it, one way
or the other. Aren't there pigs' teeth in the wych-elm?"
"Pigs' teeth?''
"And you chew the bark for toothache."
"What a rum notion! Of course not!"
"Perhaps I have confused it with some other tree.
There are still a great number of sacred trees in England,
it seems."
But he left her to intercept Mrs. Munt, whose voice
could be heard in the distance: to be intercepted himself
by Helen.
"Oh, Mr. Wilcox, about the Porphyrion " she be-
gan, and went scarlet all over her face.
"It's all right," called Margaret, catching them up.
"Dempster's Bank's better."
"But I think you told us the Porphyrion was bad, and
would smash before Christmas."
"Did I? It was still outside the Tariff Ring, and had
to take rotten policies. Lately it came in safe as houses
now."
"In other words, Mr. Bast need never have left it."
"No, the fellow needn't."
"and needn't have started life elsewhere at a greatly
reduced salary."
"He only says 'reduced/ " corrected Margaret, see-
ing trouble ahead.
"With a man so poor, every reduction must be great.
I consider it a deplorable misfortune."
Mr. Wilcox, intent on his business with Mrs. Munt,
was going steadily on, but the last remark made him
say: "What? What's that? Do you mean that I'm re-
sponsible?"
"You're ridiculous, Helen."
"You seem to think" He looked at his watch. "Let
me explain the point to you. It is like this. You seem to
198
assume, when a business concern is conducting a deli-
cate negotiation, it ought to keep the public informed
stage by stage. The Porphyrion, according to you, was
bound to say: 'I am trying all I can to get into the Tariff
Ring. I am not sure that I shall succeed, but it is the only
thing that will save me from insolvency, and I am try-
ing/ My dear Helen"
"Is that your point? A man who had little money has
less that's mine."
"I am grieved for your clerk. But it is all in the day's
work. It's part of the battle of life."
"A man who had little money," she repeated, "has
less, owing to us. Under these circumstances I do not
consider 'the battle of life' a happy expression."
"Oh, come, come!" he protested pleasantly. "You're
not to blame. No one's to blame."
"Is no one to blame for anything?"
"I wouldn't say that, but you're taking it far too se-
riously. Who is this fellow?"
"We have told you about the fellow twice already,"
said Helen. "You have even met the fellow. He is very
poor and his wife is an extravagant imbecile. He is
capable of better things. We we, the upper classes-
thought we would help him from the height of our su-
perior knowledge and here's the result!"
He raised his finger. "Now, a word of advice."
"I require no more advice."
"A word of advice. Don't take up that sentimental
attitude over the poor. See that she doesn't, Margaret.
The poor are poor, and one's sorry for them, but there
it is. As civilization moves forward, the shoe is bound
to pinch in places, and it's absurd to pretend that any-
one is responsible personally. Neither you, nor I, nor
my informant, nor the man who informed him, nor the
directors of the Porphyrion, are to blame for this clerk's
loss of salary. It's just the shoe pinching no one can
help it; and it might easily have been worse."
199
Helen quivered with indignation.
"By all means subscribe to charities subscribe to
them largelybut don't get carried away by absurd
schemes of Social Reform. I see a good deal behind the
scenes, and you can take it from me that there is no
Social Question except for a few journalists who try
to get a living out of the phrase. There are just rich and
poor, as there always have been and always will be.
Point me out a time when men have been equal"
"I didn't say"
"Point me out a time when desire for equality has
made them happier. No, no. You can't. There always
have been rich and poor. I'm no fatalist. Heaven forbid!
But our civilization is molded by great impersonal
forces" (his voice grew complacent; it always did when
he eliminated the personal) "and there always will be
rich and poor. You can't deny it" (and now it was a
respectful voice) "and you can't deny that, in spite of
all, the tendency of civilization has on the whole been
upward."
"Owing to God, I suppose," flashed Helen.
He stared at her.
"You grab the dollars. God does the rest."
It was no good instructing the girl if she was going to
talk about God in that neurotic modern way. Fraternal
to the last, he left her for the quieter company of Mrs.
Munt. He thought: "She rather reminds me of Dolly."
Helen looked out at the sea.
"Don't even discuss political economy with Henry,"
advised her sister. "It'll only end in a cry."
"But he must be one of those men who have recon-
ciled science with religion," said Helen slowly. "I don't
like those men. They are scientific themselves, and talk
of the survival of the fittest, and cut down the salaries
of their clerks, and stunt the independence of all who
may menace their comfort, but yet they believe that
somehow good it is always that sloppy 'somehow'
200
will be the outcome, and that in some mystical way the
Mr. Basts of the future will benefit because the Mr. Basts
of today are in pain."
"He is such a man in theory. But oh, Helen, in the-
ory!"
"But oh, Meg, what a theory!"
"Why should you put things so bitterly, dearie?"
"Because I'm an old maid," said Helen, biting her
lip. "I can't think why I go on like this myself." She
shook off her sister's hand and went into the house.
Margaret, distressed at the day's beginning, followed
the Bournemouth steamer with her eyes. She saw that
Helen's nerves were exasperated by the unlucky Bast
business beyond the bounds of politeness. There might
at any minute be a real explosion, which even Henry
would notice. Henry must be removed.
"Margaret!" her aunt called. "Magsy! It isn't true,
surely, what Mr. Wilcox says, that you want to go away
early next week?"
"Not 'want/ " was Margaret's prompt reply; "but
there is so much to be settled, and I do want to see the
Charleses."
"But going away without taking the Weymouth trip,
or even the Lulworth?" said Mrs. Munt, coining nearer.
"Without going once more up Nine Barrows Down?"
"I'm afraid so."
Mr. Wilcox rejoined her with: "Good! I did the break-
ing of the ice."
A wave of tenderness came over her. She put a hand
on either shoulder and looked deeply into the black,
bright eyes. What was behind their competent stare? She
knew, but was not disquieted.
201
CHAPTER
23
Margaret had no intention of letting things slide, and
the evening before she left Swanage she gave her sister
a thorough scolding. She censured her, not for disap-
proving of the engagement, but for throwing over her
disapproval a veil of mystery. Helen was equally frank.
"Yes/ 7 she said, with the air of one looking inwards,
"there is a mystery. I can't help it. It's not my fault. It's
the way life has been made." Helen in those days was
over-interested in the subconscious self. She exagger-
ated the Punch and Judy aspect of life, and spoke of
mankind as puppets whom an invisible showman
twitches into love and war. Margaret pointed out that if
she dwelt on this she, too, would eliminate the per-
sonal. Helen was silent for a minute, and then burst into
a queer speech, which cleared the air. "Go on and marry
him. I think you're splendid; and if anyone can pull it
off, you will." Margaret denied that there was anything
to "pull off," but she continued, "Yes, there is, and I
wasn't up to it with Paul. I can only do what's easy. I
can only entice and be enticed. I can't, and won't, at-
tempt difficult relations. If I marry, it will either be a
man who's strong enough to boss me or whom I'm
strong enough to boss. So I shan't ever marry, for there
aren't such men. And Heaven help any one whom I do
marry, for I shall certainly run away from him before
you can say 'Jack Robinson/ There! Because I'm uned-
ucated. But you, you're different; you're a heroine."
"Oh, Helen! Am I? Will it be as dreadful for poor
Henry as all that?"
"You mean to keep proportion, and that's heroic, it's
Greek, and I don't see why it shouldn't succeed with
202
you. Go on and fight with him and help him. Don't ask
me for help, or even for sympathy. Henceforward I'm
going my own way. I mean to be thorough, because
thoroughness is easy. I mean to dislike your husband,
and to tell him so. I mean to make no concessions to
Tibby. If Tibby wants to live with me, he must lump me.
I mean to love you more than ever. Yes, I do. You and I
have built up something real, because it is purely spiri-
tual. There's no veil of mystery over us. Unreality and
mystery begin as soon as one touches the body. The
popular view is, as usual, exactly the wrong one. Our
bothers are over tangible things money, husbands,
house-hunting. But Heaven will work of itself."
Margaret was grateful for this expression of affection,
and answered: "Perhaps." All vistas close in the un-
seenno one doubts it but Helen closed them rather
too quickly for her taste. At every turn of speech one
was confronted with reality and the absolute. Perhaps
Margaret grew too old for metaphysics, perhaps Henry
was weaning her from them, but she felt that there was
something a little unbalanced in the mind that so readily
shreds the visible. The business man who assumes that
this life is everything, and the mystic who asserts that
it is nothing, fail, on this side and on that, to hit the
truth. "Yes, I see, dear; it's about halfway between,"
Aunt Juley had hazarded in earlier years. No; truth, be-
ing alive, was not halfway between anything. It was only
to be found by continuous excursions into either realm,
and though proportion is the final secret, to espouse it
at the outset is to insure sterility.
Helen, agreeing here, disagreeing there, would have
talked till midnight, but Margaret, with her packing to
do, focussed the conversation on Henry. She might
abuse Henry behind his back, but please would she al-
ways be civil to him in company? "I definitely dislike
him, but I'll do what I can," promised Helen. "Do what
you can with my friends in return."
203
This conversation made Margaret easier. Their inner
life was so safe that they could bargain over externals in
a way that would have been incredible to Aunt Juley,
and impossible for Tibby or Charles. There are moments
when the inner life actually "pays/' when years of self-
scrutiny, conducted for no ulterior motive, are suddenly
of practical use. Such moments are still rare in the West;
that they come at all promises a fairer future. Margaret,
though unable to understand her sister, was assured
against estrangement, and returned to London with a
more peaceful mind.
The following morning, at eleven o'clock, she pre-
sented herself at the offices of the Imperial and West
African Rubber Company. She was glad to go there, for
Henry had implied his business rather than described it,
and the formlessness and vagueness that one associates
with Africa itself had hitherto brooded over the main
sources of his wealth. Not that a visit to the office cleared
things up. There was just the ordinary surface scum of
ledgers and polished counters and brass bars that began
and stopped for no possible reason, of electric-light
globes blossoming in triplets, of little rabbit-hutches
faced with glass or wire, of little rabbits. And even when
she penetrated to the inner depths, she found only the
ordinary table and Turkey carpet, and though the map
over the fireplace did depict a helping of West Africa, it
was a very ordinary map. Another map hung opposite,
on which the whole continent appeared, looking like a
whale marked out for blubber, and by its side was a
door, shut, but Henry's voice came through it, dictating
a "strong" letter. She might have been at the Porphy-
rion, or Dempster's Bank, or her own wine-merchant's.
Everything seems just alike in these days. But perhaps
she was seeing the Imperial side of the company rather
than its West African, and Imperialism always had been
one of her difficulties.
204
"One minute!" called Mr. Wilcox on receiving her
name. He touched a bell, the effect of which was to pro-
duce Charles.
Charles had written his father an adequate letter-
more adequate than Evie's, through which a girlish
indignation throbbed. And he greeted his future step-
mother with propriety.
"I hope that my wife how do you do? will give you
a decent lunch/' was his opening. "I left instructions,
but we live in a rough-and-ready way. She expects you
back to tea, too, after you have had a look at Howards
End. I wonder what you'll think of the place. I wouldn't
touch it with tongs myself. Do sit down! It's a measly
little place."
"I shall enjoy seeing it," said Margaret, feeling, for
the first time, shy.
"You'll see it at its worst, for Bryce decamped abroad
last Monday without even arranging for a charwoman
to clear up after him. I never saw such a disgraceful
mess. It's unbelievable. He wasn't in the house a
month."
"I've more than a little bone to pick with Bryce,"
called Henry from the inner chamber.
"Why did he go so suddenly?"
"Invalid type; couldn't sleep."
"Poor fellow!"
"Poor fiddlesticks!" said Mr. Wilcox, joining them.
"He had the impudence to put up notice-boards with-
out as much as saying with your leave or by your leave.
Charles flung them down."
"Yes, I flung them down," said Charles modestly.
"I've sent a telegram after him, and a pretty sharp
one, too. He, and he in person is responsible for the
upkeep of that house for the next three years."
"The keys are at the farm; we wouldn't have the
keys."
205
"Quite right."
"Dolly would have taken them, but I was in, fortu-
nately."
"What's Mr. Bryce like?" asked Margaret.
But nobody cared. Mr. Bryce was the tenant, who had
no right to sublet; to have defined him further was a
waste of time. On his misdeeds they descanted pro-
fusely, until the girl who had been typing the strong
letter came out with it. Mr. Wilcox added his signature.
"Now we'll be off," said he.
A motor-drive, a form of felicity detested by Mar-
garet, awaited her. Charles saw them in, civil to the
last, and in a moment the offices of the Imperial and
West African Rubber Company faded away. But it was
not an impressive drive. Perhaps the weather was to
blame, being grey and banked high with weary clouds.
Perhaps Hertfordshire is scarcely intended for motor-
ists. Did not a gentleman once motor so quickly
through Westmoreland that he missed it? and if West-
moreland can be missed, it will fare ill with a county
whose delicate structure particularly needs the atten-
tive eye. Hertfordshire is England at its quietest, with
little emphasis of river and hill; it is England medita-
tive. If Dray ton were with us again to write a new edi-
tion of his incomparable poem, he would sing the
nymphs of Hertfordshire as indeterminate of feature,
with hair obfuscated by the London smoke. Their eyes
would be sad, and averted from their fate towards the
Northern flats, their leader not Isis or Sabrina, but the
slowly flowing Lea. No glory of raiment would be
theirs, no urgency of dance; but they would be real
nymphs.
The chauffeur could not travel as quickly as he had
hoped, for the Great North Road was full of Easter traf-
fic. But he went quite quick enough for Margaret, a poor-
spirited creature, who had chickens and children on the
brain.
206
"They're all right," said Mr. Wilcox. "They'll learn-
like the swallows and the telegraph-wires."
"Yes, but, while they're learning"
"The motor's come to stay," he answered. "One
must get about. There's a pretty church oh, you aren't
sharp enough. Well, look out, if the road worries you
right outward at the scenery."
She looked at the scenery. It heaved and merged like
porridge. Presently it congealed. They had arrived.
Charles's house on the left; on the right the swelling
forms of the Six Hills. Their appearance in such a neigh-
bourhood surprised her. They interrupted the stream of
residences that was thickening up towards Hilton. Be-
yond them she saw meadows and a wood, and beneath
them she settled that soldiers of the best kind lay buried.
She hated war and liked soldiers it was one of her ami-
able inconsistencies.
But here was Dolly, dressed up to the nines, standing
at the door to greet them, and here were the first drops
of the rain. They ran in gaily, and after a long wait in
the drawing-room sat down to the rough-and-ready
lunch, every dish in which concealed or exuded cream.
Mr. Bryce was the chief topic of conversation. Dolly de-
scribed his visit with the key, while her father-in-law
gave satisfaction by chaffing her and contradicting all
she said. It was evidently the custom to laugh at Dolly.
He chaffed Margaret, too, and Margaret, roused from a
grave meditation, was pleased, and chaffed him back.
Dolly seemed surprised, and eyed her curiously. After
lunch the two children came down. Margaret disliked
babies, but hit it off better with the two-year-old, and
sent Dolly into fits of laughter by talking sense to him.
"Kiss them now, and come away," said Mr. Wilcox.
She came, but refused to kiss them: it was such hard
luck on the little things, she said, and though Dolly prof-
fered Chorly-worly and Porgly-woggles in turn, she was
obdurate.
207
By this time it was raining steadily. The car came
round with the hood up, and again she lost all sense of
space. In a few minutes they stopped, and Crane opened
the door of the car.
"What's happened?" asked Margaret.
"What do you suppose?" said Henry.
A little porch was close up against her face.
"Are we there already?"
"We are/'
"Well, I never! In years ago it seemed so far away."
Smiling, but somehow disillusioned, she jumped out,
and her impetus carried her to the front door. She was
about to open it, when Henry said: "That's no good;
it's locked. Who's got the key?"
As he had himself forgotten to call for the key at the
farm, no one replied. He also wanted to know who had
left the front gate open, since a cow had strayed in from
the road and was spoiling the croquet lawn. Then he
said rather crossly: "Margaret, you wait in the dry. I'll
go down for the key. It isn't a hundred yards."
"Mayn't I come too?"
"No; I shall be back before I'm gone."
Then the car turned away, and it was as if a curtain
had risen. For the second time that day she saw the
appearance of the earth.
There were the greengage-trees that Helen had once
described, there the tennis lawn, there the hedge that
would be glorious with dog-roses in June, but the vision
now was of black and palest green. Down by the dell-
hole more vivid colours were awakening, and Lent Lilies
stood sentinel on its margin, or advanced in battalions
over the grass. Tulips were a tray of jewels. She could
not see the wych-elm tree, but a branch of the celebrated
vine, studded with velvet knobs, had covered the porch.
She was struck by the fertility of the soil; she had sel-
dom been in a garden where the flowers looked so well,
208
and even the weeds she was idly plucking out of the
porch were intensely green. Why had poor Mr. Bryce
fled from all this beauty? For she had already decided
that the place was beautiful.
"Naughty cow! Go away!" cried Margaret to the cow,
but without indignation.
Harder came the rain, pouring out of a windless sky,
and spattering up from the notice-boards of the house-
agents, which lay in a row on the lawn where Charles
had hurled them. She must have interviewed Charles in
another world where one did have interviews. How
Helen would revel in such a notion! Charles dead, all
people dead, nothing alive but houses and gardens. The
obvious dead, the intangible alive, and no connection
at all between them! Margaret smiled. Would that her
own fancies were as clear-cut! Would that she could deal
as high-handedly with the world! Smiling and sighing,
she laid her hand upon the door. It opened. The house
was not locked up at all.
She hesitated. Ought she to wait for Henry? He felt
strongly about property, and might prefer to show her
over himself. On the other hand, he had told her to keep
in the dry, and the porch was beginning to drip. So she
went in, and the draught from inside slammed the door
behind.
Desolation greeted her. Dirty finger-prints were on
the hall-windows, flue and rubbish on its unwashed
boards. The civilization of luggage had been here for a
month, and then decamped. Dining-room and drawing-
roomright and left were guessed only by their wall-
papers. They were just rooms where one could shelter
from the rain. Across the ceiling of each ran a great
beam. The dining-room and hall revealed theirs openly,
but the drawing-room's was match-boarded because
the facts of life must be concealed from ladies? Drawing-
room, dining-room, and hall how petty the names
209
sounded! Here were simply three rooms where children
could play and friends shelter from the rain. Yes, and
they were beautiful.
Then she opened one of the doors opposite there
were two and exchanged wall-papers for whitewash. It
was the servants' part, though she scarcely realized that:
just rooms again, where friends might shelter. The gar-
den at the back was full of flowering cherries and plums.
Farther on were hints of the meadow and a black cliff of
pines. Yes, the meadow was beautiful.
Penned in by the desolate weather, she recaptured
the sense of space which the motor had tried to rob from
her. She remembered again that ten square miles are not
ten times as wonderful as one square mile, that a thou-
sand square miles are not practically the same as heaven.
The phantom of bigness, which London encourages, was
laid for ever when she paced from the hall at Howards
End to its kitchen and heard the rains run this way and
that where the watershed of the roof divided them.
Now Helen came to her mind, scrutinizing half Wes-
sex from the ridge of the Purbeck Downs, and saying:
"You will have to lose something." She was not so sure.
For instance, she would double her kingdom by opening
the door that concealed the stairs.
Now she thought of the map of Africa; of empires; of
her father; of the two supreme nations, streams of whose
life warmed her blood, but, mingling, had cooled her
brain. She paced back into the hall, and as she did so
the house reverberated.
"Is that you, Henry?" she called.
There was no answer, but the house reverberated
again.
"Henry, have you got in?"
But it was the heart of the house beating, faintly at
first, then loudly, martially. It dominated the rain.
It is the starved imagination, not the well-nourished,
that is afraid. Margaret flung open the door to the stairs.
210
A noise as of drums seemed to deafen her. A woman,
an old woman, was descending, with figure erect, with
face impassive, with lips that parted and said dryly:
"Oh! Well, I took you for Ruth Wilcox."
Margaret stammered: "I Mrs. Wilcox I?"
"In fancy, of course in fancy. You had her way of
walking. Good day/ 7 And the old woman passed out
into the rain.
CHAPTER
24
"It gave her quite a turn," said Mr. Wilcox, when re-
tailing the incident to Dolly at tea-time. "None of you
girls have any nerves, really. Of course, a word from me
put it all right, but silly old Miss Avery she frightened
you, didn't she, Margaret? There you stood clutching a
bunch of weeds. She might have said something, in-
stead of coming down the stairs with that alarming bon-
net on. I passed her as I came in. Enough to make the
car shy. I believe Miss Avery goes in for being a char-
acter; some old maids do." He lit a cigarette. "It is their
last resource. Heaven knows what she was doing in the
place; but that's Bryce's business, not mine."
"I wasn't as foolish as you suggest," said Margaret.
"She only startled me, for the house had been silent so
long."
"Did you take her for a spook?" asked Dolly, for
whom "spooks" and "going to church" summarized
the unseen.
"Not exactly."
"She really did frighten you," said Henry, who was
far from discouraging timidity in females. "Poor Mar-
garet! And very naturally. Uneducated classes are so
stupid."
211
"Is Miss Avery uneducated classes?" Margaret asked,
and found herself looking at the decoration scheme of
Dolly's drawing-room.
"She's just one of the crew at the farm. People like
that always assume things. She assumed you'd know
who she was. She left all the Howards End keys in the
front lobby, and assumed that you'd seen them as you
came in, that you'd lock up the house when you'd done,
and would bring them on down to her. And there was
her niece hunting for them down at the farm. Lack of
education makes people very casual. Hilton was full of
women like Miss Avery once."
"I shouldn't have disliked it, perhaps."
"Or Miss Avery giving me a wedding present," said
Dolly.
Which was illogical but interesting. Through Dolly,
Margaret was destined to learn a good deal.
"But Charles said I must try not to mind, because she
had known his grandmother."
"As usual, you've got the story wrong, my good Dor-
othea."
"I meant great-grandmother the one who left Mrs.
Wilcox the house. Weren't both of them and Miss Avery
friends when Howards End, too, was a farm?"
Her father-in-law blew out a shaft of smoke. His at-
titude to his dead wife was curious. He would allude to
her, and hear her discussed, but never mentioned her
by name. Nor was he interested in the dim, bucolic past.
Dolly was for the following reason.
"Then hadn't Mrs. Wilcox a brother or was it an un-
cle? Anyhow, he popped the question, and Miss Avery,
she said 'No.' Just imagine, if she'd said 'Yes/ she
would have been Charles's aunt. (Oh, I say, that's rather
good! 'Charlie's Aunt'! I must chaff him about that this
evening.) And the man went out and was killed. Yes,
I'm certain I've got it right now. Tom Howard he was
the last of them."
212
"I believe so," said Mr. Wilcox negligently.
"I say! Howards End Howard's Ended!" cried
Dolly. "I'm rather on the spot this evening, eh?"
"I wish you'd ask whether Crane's ended."
"Oh, Mr. Wilcox, how can you?"
"Because, if he has had enough tea, we ought to go.
Dolly's a good little woman," he continued, "but a little
of her goes a long way. I couldn't live near her if you
paid me."
Margaret smiled. Though presenting a firm front to
outsiders, no Wilcox could live near, or near the posses-
sions of, any other Wilcox. They had the colonial spirit,
and were always making for some spot where the white
man might carry his burden unobserved. Of course,
Howards End was impossible, so long as the younger
couple were established in Hilton. His objections to the
house were plain as daylight now.
Crane had had enough tea, and was sent to the ga-
rage, where their car had been trickling muddy water
over Charles's. The downpour had surely penetrated the
Six Hills by now, bringing news of our restless civiliza-
tion. "Curious mounds," said Henry, "but in with you
now; another time." He had to be up in London by
seven if possible, by six thirty. Once more she lost the
sense of space; once more trees, houses, people, ani-
mals, hills, merged and heaved into one dirtiness, and
she was at Wickham Place.
Her evening was pleasant. The sense of flux which
had haunted her all the year disappeared for a time. She
forgot the luggage and the motor-cars, and the hurrying
men who know so much and connect so little. She re-
captured the sense of space, which is the basis of all
earthly beauty, and, starting from Howards End, she
attempted to realize England. She failed visions do not
come when we try, though they may come through try-
ing. But an unexpected love of the island awoke in her,
connecting on this side with the joys of the flesh, on
213
that with the inconceivable. Helen and her father had
known this love, poor Leonard Bast was groping after
it, but it had been hidden from Margaret till this after-
noon. It had certainly come through the house and old
Miss Avery. Through them: the notion of "through"
persisted; her mind trembled towards a conclusion
which only the unwise have put into words. Then, veer-
ing back into warmth, it dwelt on ruddy bricks, flower-
ing plum-trees, and all the tangible joys of spring.
Henry, after allaying her agitation, had taken her over
his property, and had explained to her the use and di-
mensions of the various rooms. He had sketched the
history of the little estate. "It is so unlucky," ran the
monologue, "that money wasn't put into it about fifty
years ago. Then it had four fivetimes the land thirty
acres at least. One could have made something out of it
then a small park, or at all events shrubberies, and re-
built the house farther away from the road. What's the
good of taking it in hand now? Nothing but the meadow
left, and even that was heavily mortgaged when I first
had to do with things yes, and the house too. Oh, it
was no joke." She saw two women as he spoke, one
old, the other young, watching their inheritance melt
away. She saw them greet him as a deliverer. "Misman-
agement did it besides, the days for small farms are
over. It doesn't pay except with intensive cultivation.
Small holdings, back to the land ah! philanthropic
bunkum. Take it as a rule that nothing pays on a small
scale. Most of the land you see (they were standing at
an upper window, the only one which faced west) be-
longs to the people at the Park they made their pile
over copper good chaps. Avery's Farm, Sishe's what
they call the Common, where you see that ruined oak-
one after the other fell in, and so did this, as near as is
no matter." But Henry had saved it; without fine feel-
ings or deep insight, but he had saved it, and she loved
him for the deed. "When I had more control I did what
214
I could: sold off the two and a half animals, and the
mangy pony, and the superannuated tools; pulled down
the outhouses; drained; thinned out I don't know how
many guelder-roses and elder-trees; and inside the
house I turned the old kitchen into a hall, and made a
kitchen behind where the dairy was. Garage and so on
came later. But one could still tell it's been an old farm.
And yet it isn't the place that would fetch one of your
artistic crew." No, it wasn't; and if he did not quite
understand it, the artistic crew would still less: it was
English, and the wych-elm that she saw from the win-
dow was an English tree. No report had prepared her
for its peculiar glory. It was neither warrior, nor lover,
nor god; in none of these roles do the English excel. It
was a comrade, bending over the house, strength and
adventure in its roots, but in its utmost fingers tender-
ness, and the girth, that a dozen men could not have
spanned, became in the end evanescent, till pale bud
clusters seemed to float in the air. It was a comrade.
House and tree transcended any similes of sex. Margaret
thought of them now, and was to think of them through
many a windy night and London day, but to compare
either to man, to woman, always dwarfed the vision.
Yet they kept within limits of the human. Their message
was not of eternity, but of hope on this side of the grave.
As she stood in the one, gazing at the other, truer rela-
tionship had gleamed.
Another touch, and the account of her day is finished.
They entered the garden for a minute, and to Mr. Wil-
cox's surprise she was right. Teeth, pigs' teeth, could
be seen in the bark of the wych-elm tree just the white
tips of them showing. "Extraordinary!" he cried. "Who
told you?"
"I heard of it one winter in London/' was her an-
swer, for she, too, avoided mentioning Mrs. Wilcox by
name.
215
CHAPTER
25
Evie heard of her father's engagement when she was in
for a tennis tournament, and her play went simply to
pot. That she should marry and leave him had seemed
natural enough; that he, left alone, should do the same
was deceitful; and now Charles and Dolly said that it
was all her fault. "But I never dreamt of such a thing/'
she grumbled. "Dad took me to call now and then, and
made me ask her to Simpson's. Well, I'm altogether off
Dad." It was also an insult to their mother's memory;
there they were agreed, and Evie had the idea of return-
ing Mrs. Wilcox's lace and jewellery "as a protest."
Against what it would protest she was not dear; but
being only eighteen, the idea of renunciation appealed
to her, the more as she did not care for jewellery or lace.
Dolly then suggested that she and Uncle Percy should
pretend to break off their engagement, and then per-
haps Mr. Wilcox would quarrel with Miss Schlegel, and
break off his; or Paul might be cabled for. But at this
point Charles told them not to talk nonsense. So Evie
settled to marry as soon as possible; it was no good
hanging about with these Schlegels eying her. The date
of her wedding was consequently put forward from
September to August, and in the intoxication of presents
she recovered much of her good-humour.
Margaret found that she was expected to figure at this
function, and to figure largely; it would be such an op-
portunity, said Henry, for her to get to know his set. Sir
James Bidder would be there, and all the Cahills and the
Fussells, and his sister-in-law, Mrs. Warrington Wilcox,
had fortunately got back from her tour round the world.
Henry she loved, but his set promised to be another
216
matter. He had not the knack of surrounding himself
with nice people indeed, for a man of ability and virtue
his choice had been singularly unfortunate; he had no
guiding principle beyond a certain preference for medi-
ocrity; he was content to settle one of the greatest things
in life haphazard, and so, while his investments went
right, his friends generally went wrong. She would be
told: "Oh, So-and-so's a good sorta thundering good
sort/' and find on meeting him, that he was a brute or
a bore. If Henry had shown real affection, she would
have understood, for affection explains everything. But
he seemed without sentiment. The "thundering good
sort" might at any moment become "a fellow for whom
I never did have much use, and have less now," and be
shaken off cheerily into oblivion. Margaret had done the
same as a schoolgirl. Now she never forgot anyone for
whom she had once cared; she connected, though the
connection might be bitter, and she hoped that some
day Henry would do the same.
Evie was not to be married from Ducie Street. She
had a fancy for something rural, and, besides, no one
would be in London then, so she left her boxes for a few
weeks at Oniton Grange, and her banns were duly pub-
lished in the parish church, and for a couple of days the
little town, dreaming between the ruddy hills, was
roused by the clang of our civilization, and drew up by
the roadside to let the motors pass. Oniton had been a
discovery of Mr. Wilcox's a discovery of which he was
not altogether proud. It was up towards the Welsh bor-
der, and so difficult of access that he had concluded it
must be something special. A ruined castle stood in the
grounds. But having got there, what was one to do? The
shooting was bad, the fishing indifferent, and women-
folk reported the scenery as nothing much. The place
turned out to be in the wrong part of Shropshire, damn
it, and though he never damned his own property aloud,
he was only waiting to get it off his hands, and then to
217
let fly. Evie's marriage was its last appearance in public.
As soon as a tenant was found, it became a house for
which he never had had much use, and had less now,
and, like Howards End, faded into Limbo.
But on Margaret, Oniton was destined to make a last-
ing impression. She regarded it as her future home, and
was anxious to start straight with the clergy, etc., and,
if possible, to see something of the local life. It was a
market-town as tiny a one as England possesses and
had for ages served that lonely valley, and guarded our
marches against the Kelt. In spite of the occasion, in
spite of the numbing hilarity that greeted her as soon as
she got into the reserved saloon at Paddington, her
senses were awake and watching, and though Oniton
was to prove one of her innumerable false starts, she
never forgot it, nor the things that happened there.
The London party only numbered eight the Fussells,
father and son, two Anglo-Indian ladies named Mrs.
Plynlimmon and Lady Edser, Mrs. Warrington Wilcox
and her daughter, and lastly, the little girl, very smart
and quiet, who figures at so many weddings, and who
kept a watchful eye on Margaret, the bride-elect. Dolly
was absent a domestic event detained her at Hilton;
Paul had cabled a humorous message; Charles was to
meet them with a trio of motors at Shrewsbury. Helen
had refused her invitation; Tibby had never answered
his. The management was excellent, as was to be ex-
pected with anything that Henry undertook; one was
conscious of his sensible and generous brain in the back-
ground. They were his guests as soon as they reached
the train; a special label for their luggage; a courier; a
special lunch; they had only to look pleasant and, where
possible, pretty. Margaret thought with dismay of her
own nuptials presumably under the management of
Tibby. "Mr. Theobald Schlegel and Miss Helen Schlegel
request the pleasure of Mrs. Plynlimmon's company on
the occasion of the marriage of their sister Margaret."
218
The formula was incredible, but it must soon be printed
and sent, and though Wickham Place need not compete
with Oniton, it must feed its guests properly, and pro-
vide them with sufficient chairs. Her wedding would
either be ramshackly or bourgeois she hoped the latter.
Such an affair as the present, staged with a deftness that
was almost beautiful, lay beyond her powers and those
of her friends.
The low rich purr of a Great Western express is not
the worst background for conversation, and the journey
passed pleasantly enough. Nothing could have ex-
ceeded the kindness of the two men. They raised win-
dows for some ladies, and lowered them for others, they
rang the bell for the servant, they identified the colleges
as the train slipped past Oxford, they caught books or
bag-purses in the act of tumbling on to the floor. Yet
there was nothing finicky about their politeness; it had
the Public School touch, and, though sedulous, was vir-
ile. More battles than Waterloo have been won on our
playing-fields, and Margaret bowed to a charm of which
she did not wholly approve, and said nothing when the
Oxford colleges were identified wrongly. "Male and fe-
male created He them"; the journey to Shrewsbury con-
firmed this questionable statement, and the long glass
saloon, that moved so easily and felt so comfortable,
became a forcing-house for the idea of sex.
At Shrewsbury came fresh air. Margaret was all for
sight-seeing, and while the others were finishing their
tea at the Raven, she annexed a motor and hurried over
the astonishing City. Her chauffeur was not the faithful
Crane, but an Italian, who dearly loved making her late.
Charles, watch in hand, though with a level brow, was
standing in front of the hotel when they returned. It was
perfectly all right, he told her; she was by no means the
last. And then he dived into the coffee-room, and she
heard him say: "For God's sake, hurry the women up;
we shall never be off/' and Albert Fussell reply: "Not
219
I; I've done my share/' and Colonel Fussell opine that
the ladies were getting themselves up to kill. Presently
Myra (Mrs. Warrington's daughter) appeared, and as
she was his cousin, Charles blew her up a little: she had
been changing her smart travelling hat for a smart motor
hat. Then Mrs. Warrington herself, leading the quiet
child; the two Anglo-Indian ladies were always last.
Maids, courier, heavy luggage, had already gone on by
a branch-line to a station nearer Oniton, but there were
five hat-boxes and four dressing-bags to be packed, and
five dust-cloaks to be put on, and to be put off at the
last moment, because Charles declared them not neces-
sary. The men presided over everything with unfailing
good-humour. By half past five the party was ready, and
went out of Shrewsbury by the Welsh Bridge.
Shropshire had not the reticence of Hertfordshire.
Though robbed of half its magic by swift movement, it
still conveyed the sense of hills. They were nearing the
buttresses that force the Severn eastern and make it an
English stream, and the sun, sinking over the Sentinels
of Wales, was straight in their eyes. Having picked up
another guest, they turned southward, avoiding the
greater mountains, but conscious of an occasional sum-
mit, rounded and mild, whose colouring differed in
quality from that of the lower earth, and whose contours
altered more slowly. Quiet mysteries were in progress
behind those tossing horizons: the West, as ever, was
retreating with some secret which may not be worth the
discovery, but which no practical man will ever dis-
cover.
They spoke of Tariff Reform.
Mrs. Warrington was just back from the Colonies.
Like many other critics of Empire, her mouth had been
stopped with food, and she could only exclaim at the
hospitality with which she had been received, and warn
the Mother Country against trifling with young Titans.
"They threaten to cut the painter," she cried, "and
220
where shall we be then? Miss Schlegel, you'll undertake
to keep Henry sound about Tariff Reform? It is our last
hope."
Margaret playfully confessed herself on the other side,
and they began to quote from their respective hand-
books while the motor carried them deep into the hills.
Curious these were, rather than impressive, for their
outlines lacked beauty, and the pink fields on their sum-
mits suggested the handkerchiefs of a giant spread out
to dry. An occasional outcrop of rock, an occasional
wood, an occasional "forest," treeless and brown, all
hinted at wildness to follow, but the main colour was
an agricultural green. The air grew cooler; they had sur-
mounted the last gradient, and Oniton lay below them
with its church, its radiating houses, its castle, its river-
girt peninsula. Close to the castle was a grey mansion,
unintellectual but kindly, stretching with its grounds
across the peninsula's neck the sort of mansion that
was built all over England in the beginning of the last
century, while architecture was still an expression of the
national character. That was the Grange, remarked Al-
bert, over his shoulder, and then he jammed the brake
on, and the motor slowed down and stopped. 'Tm
sorry," said he, turning round. "Do you mind getting
out by the door on the right? Steady on!"
"What's happened?" asked Mrs. Warrington.
Then the car behind them drew up, and the voice of
Charles was heard saying: "Get out the women at
once." There was a concourse of males, and Margaret
and her companions were hustled out and received into
the second car. What had happened? As it started off
again, the door of a cottage opened, and a girl screamed
wildly at them.
"What is it?" the ladies cried.
Charles drove them a hundred yards without speak-
ing. Then he said: "It's all right. Your car just touched
a dog."
221
"But stop!" cried Margaret, horrified.
"It didn't hurt him."
"Didn't really hurt him?" asked Myra.
"No."
"Do please stop!" said Margaret, leaning forward. She
was standing up in the car, the other occupants holding
her knees to steady her. "I want to go back, please."
Charles took no notice.
"We've left Mr. Fussell behind," said another; "and
Angelo, and Crane."
"Yes, but no woman."
"I expect a little of" Mrs. Warrington scratched her
palm "will be more to the point than one of us!"
"The insurance company sees to that," remarked
Charles, "and Albert will do the talking."
"I want to go back, though, I say!" repeated Marga-
ret, getting angry.
Charles took no notice. The motor, loaded with ref-
ugees, continued to travel very slowly down the hill.
"The men are there," chorused the others. "Men will
see to it."
"The men can't see to it. Oh, this is ridiculous!
Charles, I ask you to stop."
"Stopping's no good," drawled Charles.
"Isn't it?" said Margaret, and jumped straight out of
the car.
She fell on her knees, cut her gloves, shook her hat
over her ear. Cries of alarm followed her. "You've hurt
yourself," exclaimed Charles, jumping after her.
"Of course I've hurt myself!" she retorted.
"May I ask what-"
"There's nothing to ask," said Margaret.
"Your hand's bleeding."
"I know."
"I'm in for a frightful row from the pater."
"You should have thought of that sooner, Charles."
Charles had never been in such a position before. It
222
was a woman in revolt who was hobbling away from
him, and the sight was too strange to leave any room
for anger. He recovered himself when the others caught
them up: their sort he understood* He commanded them
to go back.
Albert Fussell was seen walking towards them.
"It's all right!" he called. "It wasn't a dog, it was a
cat."
"Got room in your car for a little un? I cut as soon as
I saw it wasn't a dog; the chauffeurs are tackling the
girl." But Margaret walked forward steadily. Why
should the chauffeurs tackle the girl? Ladies sheltering
behind men, men sheltering behind servants the whole
system's wrong, and she must challenge it.
"Miss Schlegel! 'Pon my word, you've hurt your
hand."
"I'm just going to see," said Margaret. "Don't you
wait, Mr. Fussell."
The second motor came round the corner. "It is all
right, madam," said Crane in his turn. He had taken to
call her madam.
"What's all right? The cat?"
"Yes, madam. The girl will receive compensation for
it."
"She was a very ruda girla," said Angelo from the
third motor thoughtfully.
"Wouldn't you have been rude?"
The Italian spread out his hands, implying that he
had not thought of rudeness, but would produce it if it
pleased her. The situation became absurd. The gentle-
men were again buzzing around Miss Schlegel with of-
fers of assistance, and Lady Edser began to bind up her
hand. She yielded, apologizing slightly, and was led
back to the car, and soon the landscape resumed its mo-
tion, the lonely cottage disappeared, the castle swelled
on its cushion of turf, and they had arrived. No doubt
she had disgraced herself. But she felt their whole jour-
223
ney from London had been unreal. They had no part
with the earth and its emotions. They were dust, and a
stink, and cosmopolitan chatter, and the girl whose cat
had been killed had lived more deeply than they.
"Oh, Henry," she exclaimed, "I have been so
naughty/' for she had decided to take up this line. "We
ran over a cat. Charles told me not to jump out, but I
would, and look!" She held out her bandaged hand.
"Your poor Meg went such a flop/'
Mr. Wilcox looked bewildered. In evening dress, he
was standing to welcome his guests in the hall.
"Thinking it was a dog," added Mrs. Warrington.
"Ah, a dog's a companion!" said Colonel Fussell. "A
dog'll remember you."
"Have you hurt yourself, Margaret?"
"Not to speak about; and it's my left hand."
"Well, hurry up and change."
She obeyed, as did the others. Mr. Wilcox then turned
to his son.
"Now, Charles, what's happened?"
Charles was absolutely honest. He described what he
believed to have happened. Albert had flattened out a
cat, and Miss Schlegel had lost her nerve, as any woman
might. She had been got safely into the other car, but
when it was in motion had leapt out again, in spite of
all that they could say. After walking a little on the road,
she had calmed down and had said that she was sorry.
His father accepted this explanation, and neither knew
that Margaret had artfully prepared the way for it. It
fitted in too well with their view of feminine nature. In
the smoking-room, after dinner, the Colonel put for-
ward the view that Miss Schlegel had jumped it out of
devilry. Well he remembered as a young man, in the
harbour of Gibraltar once, how a girl a handsome girl,
too had jumped overboard for a bet. He could see her
now, and all the lads overboard after her. But Charles
and Mr. Wilcox agreed it was much more probably
224
nerves in Miss Schlegel's case. Charles was depressed.
That woman had a tongue. She would bring worse dis-
grace on his father before she had done with them. He
strolled out on to the castle mound to think the matter
over. The evening was exquisite. On three sides of him
a little river whispered, full of messages from the west;
above his head the ruins made patterns against the sky.
He carefully reviewed their dealings with this family,
until he fitted Helen, and Margaret, and Aunt Juley into
an orderly conspiracy. Paternity had made him suspi-
cious. He had two children to look after, and more com-
ing, and day by day they seemed less likely to grow up
rich men. "It is all very well," he reflected, "the pater
saying that he will be just to all, but one can't be just
indefinitely. Money isn't elastic. What's to happen if
Evie has a family? And, come to that, so may the pater.
There'll not be enough to go round, for there's none
coming in, either through Dolly or Percy. It's damna-
ble!" He looked enviously at the Grange, whose win-
dows poured light and laughter. First and last, this
wedding would cost a pretty penny. Two ladies were
strolling up and down the garden terrace, and as the
syllables "Imperialism" were wafted to his ears, he
guessed that one of them was his aunt. She might have
helped him, if she too had not had a family to provide
for. "Everyone for himself," he repeated a maxim
which had cheered him in the past, but which rang
grimly enough among the ruins of Oniton. He lacked
his father's ability in business, and so had an ever higher
regard for money; unless he could inherit plenty, he
feared to leave his children poor.
As he sat thinking, one of the ladies left the terrace
and walked into the meadow; he recognized her as Mar-
garet by the white bandage that gleamed on her arm,
and put out his cigar, lest the gleam should betray him.
She climbed up the mound in zigzags, and at times
stooped down, as if she was stroking the turf. It sounds
225
absolutely incredible, but for a moment Charles thought
that she was in love with him, and had come out to
tempt him. Charles believed in temptresses, who are in-
deed the strong man's necessary complement, and hav-
ing no sense of humour, he could not purge himself of
the thought by a smile. Margaret, who was engaged to
his father, and his sister's wedding-guest, kept on her
way without noticing him, and he admitted that he had
wronged her on this point. But what was she doing?
Why was she stumbling about amongst the rubble and
catching her dress in brambles and burrs? As she edged
round the keep, she must have got to leeward and smelt
his cigar-smoke, for she exclaimed: "Hullo! Who's
that?"
Charles made no answer.
"Saxon or Kelt?" she continued, laughing in the
darkness. "But it doesn't matter. Whichever you are,
you will have to listen to me. I love this place. I love
Shropshire. I hate London. I am glad that this will be
my home. Ah, dear"she was now moving back to-
wards the house "what a comfort to have arrived!"
"That woman means mischief," thought Charles, and
compressed his lips. In a few minutes he followed her
indoors, as the ground was getting damp. Mists were
rising from the river, and presently it became invisible,
though it whispered more loudly. There had been a
heavy downpour in the Welsh hills.
226
CHAPTER
26
Next morning a fine mist covered the peninsula. The
weather promised well, and the outline of the castle
mound grew clearer each moment that Margaret
watched it. Presently she saw the keep, and the sun
painted the rubble gold, and charged the white sky with
blue. The shadow of the house gathered itself together,
and fell over the garden. A cat looked up at her window
and mewed. Lastly the river appeared, still holding the
mists between its banks and its overhanging alders, and
only visible as far as a hill, which cut off its upper
reaches.
. Margaret was fascinated by Oniton. She had said that
she loved it, but it was rather its romantic tension that
held her. The rounded Druids of whom she had caught
glimpses in her drive, the rivers hurrying down from
them to England, the carelessly modelled masses of the
lower hills, thrilled her with poetry. The house was in-
significant, but the prospect from it would be an eternal
joy, and she thought of all the friends she would have
to stop in it, and of the conversion of Henry himself to
a rural life. Society, too, promised favourably. The rec-
tor of the parish had dined with them last night, and
she found that he was a friend of her father's, and so
knew what to find in her. She liked him. He would in-
troduce her to the town. While, on her other side, Sir
James Bidder sat, repeating that she only had to give the
word, and he would whip up the county families for
twenty miles round. Whether Sir James, who was Gar-
den Seeds, had promised what he could perform, she
doubted, but so long as Henry mistook them for the
county families when they did call, she was content.
227
Charles and Albert Fussell now crossed the lawn.
They were going for a morning dip, and a servant fol-
lowed them with their bathing-dresses. She had meant
to take a stroll herself before breakfast, but saw that the
day was still sacred to men, and amused herself by
watching their contretemps. In the first place the key
of the bathing-shed could not be found. Charles stood
by the riverside with folded hands, tragical, while the
servant shouted, and was misunderstood by another ser-
ant in the garden. Then came a difficulty about a spring-
board, and soon three people were running backwards
and forwards over the meadow, with orders and counter
orders and recriminations and apologies. If Margaret
wanted to jump from a motor-car, she jumped; if Tibby
thought paddling would benefit his ankles, he paddled;
if a clerk desired adventure, he took a walk in the dark.
But these athletes seemed paralysed. They could not
bathe without their appliances, though the morning sun
was calling and the last mists were rising from the dim-
pling stream. Had they found the life of the body after
all? Could not the men whom they despised as milksops
beat them, even on their own ground?
She thought of the bathing arrangements as they
should be in her day no worrying of servants, no ap-
pliances, beyond good sense. Her reflections were dis-
turbed by the quiet child, who had come out to speak
to the cat, but was now watching her watch the men.
She called: "Good morning, dear," a little sharply. Her
voice spread consternation. Charles looked round, and
though completely attired in indigo blue, vanished into
the shed, and was seen no more.
"Miss Wilcox is up" the child whispered, and then
became unintelligible.
"What's that?"
It sounded like "cut-yokesack-back"
"I can't hear."
"On the bed tissue-paper "
228
Gathering that the wedding-dress was on view, and
that a visit would be seemly, she went to Evie's room.
All was hilarity here. Evie, in a petticoat, was dancing
with one of the Anglo-Indian ladies, while the other was
adoring yards of white satin. They screamed, they
laughed, they sang, and the dog barked.
Margaret screamed a little too, but without convic-
tion. She could not feel that a wedding was so funny.
Perhaps something was missing in her equipment.
Evie gasped: "Dolly is a rotter not to be here! Oh, we
would rag just then!" Then Margaret went down to
breakfast.
Henry was already installed; he ate slowly and spoke
little, and was, in Margaret's eyes, the only member of
their party who dodged emotion successfully. She could
not suppose him indifferent either to the loss of his
daughter or to the presence of his future wife. Yet he
dwelt intact, only issuing orders occasionally orders
that promoted the comfort of his guests. He inquired
after her hand; he set her to pour out the coffee and
Mrs. Warrington to pour out the tea. When Evie came
down, there was a moment's awkwardness, and both
ladies rose to vacate their places. "Burton," called
Henry, "serve tea and coffee from the sideboard!" It
wasn't genuine tact, but it was tact, of a sort the sort
that is as useful as the genuine, and saves even more
situations at board-meetings. Henry treated a marriage
like a funeral, item by item, never raising his eyes to the
whole, and "Death, where is thy sting? Love, where is
thy victory?" one would exclaim at the close.
After breakfast she claimed a few words with him. It
was always best to approach him formally. She asked
for the interview, because he was going on to shoot
grouse tomorrow, and she was returning to Helen in
town.
"Certainly, dear," said he. "Of course, I have the
time. What do you want?"
229
''Nothing/'
"I was afraid something had gone wrong/'
"No; I have nothing to say, but you may talk."
Glancing at his watch, he talked of the nasty curve at
the lych-gate. She heard him with interest. Her surface
could always respond to his without contempt, though
all her deeper being might be yearning to help him. She
had abandoned any plan of action. Love is the best, and
the more she let herself love him, the more chance was
there that he would set his soul in order. Such a mo-
ment as this, when they sat under fair weather by the
walks of their future home, was so sweet to her that its
sweetness would surely pierce to him. Each lift of his
eyes, each parting of the thatched lip from the clean-
shaven, must prelude the tenderness that kills the Monk
and the Beast at a single blow. Disappointed a hundred
times, she still hoped. She loved him with too dear a
vision to fear his cloudiness. Whether he droned trivi-
alities, as today, or sprang kisses on her in the twilight,
she could pardon him, she could respond.
"If there is this nasty curve," she suggested,
"couldn't we walk to the church? Not, of course, you
and Evie; but the rest of us might very well go on first,
and that would mean fewer carriages."
"One can't have ladies walking through the Market
Square. The Fussells wouldn't like it; they were awfully
particular at Charles's wedding. My she one of our
party was anxious to walk, and certainly the church was
just round the corner, and I shouldn't have minded; but
the Colonel made a great point of it."
"You men shouldn't be so chivalrous," said Margaret
thoughtfully.
"Why not?"
She knew why not, but said that she did not know.
He then announced that, unless she had anything
special to say, he must visit the wine-cellar, and they
went off together in search of Burton. Though clumsy
230
and a little inconvenient, Oniton was a genuine country-
house. They clattered down flagged passages, looking
into room after room, and scaring unknown maids from
the performance of obscure duties. The wedding-break-
fast must be in readiness when they came back from
church, and tea would be served in the garden. The sight
of so many agitated and serious people made Margaret
smile, but she reflected that they were paid to be seri-
ous, and enjoyed being agitated. Here were the lower
wheels of the machine that was tossing Evie up into
nuptial glory. A little boy blocked their way with pig-
tails. His mind could not grasp their greatness, and he
said: "By your leave; let me pass, please." Henry asked
him where Burton was. But the servants were so new
that they did not know one another's names. In the
still-room sat the band, who had stipulated for cham-
pagne as part of their fee, and who were already drink-
ing beer. Scents of Araby came from the kitchen,
mingled with cries. Margaret knew what had happened
there, for it happened at Wickham Place. One of the
wedding dishes had boiled over, and the cook was
throwing cedar-shavings to hide the smell. At last they
came upon the butler. Henry gave him the keys, and
handed Margaret down the cellar-stairs. Two doors were
unlocked. She, who kept all her wine at the bottom of
the linen-cupboard, was astonished at the sight. "We
shall never get through it!" she cried, and the two men
were suddenly drawn into brotherhood, and exchanged
smiles. She felt as if she had again jumped out of the
car while it was moving.
Certainly Oniton would take some digesting. It would
be no small business to remain herself, and yet to assim-
ilate such an establishment. She must remain herself,
for his sake as well as her own, since a shadowy wife
degrades the husband whom she accompanies, and she
must assimilate for reasons of common honesty, since
she had no right to marry a man and make him uncom-
231
fortable. Her only ally was the power of Home. The loss
of Wickham Place had taught her more than its posses-
sion. Howards End had repeated the lesson. She was
determined to create new sanctities among these hills.
After visiting the wine-cellar, she dressed, and then
came the wedding, which seemed a small affair when
compared with the preparations for it. Everything went
like one o'clock. Mr. Cahill materialized out of space,
and was waiting for his bride at the church door. No
one dropped the ring or mispronounced the responses,
or trod on Evie's train, or cried. In a few minutes the
clergymen performed their duty, the register was signed,
and they were back in their carriages, negotiating the
dangerous curve by the lych-gate. Margaret was con-
vinced that they had not been married at all, and that
the Norman church had been intent all the time on other
business.
There were more documents to sign at the house, and
the breakfast to eat, and then a few more people
dropped in for the garden party. There had been a great
many refusals, and after all it was not a very big affair
not as big as Margaret's would be. She noted the dishes
and the strips of red carpet, that outwardly she might
give Henry what was proper. But inwardly she hoped
for something better than this blend of Sunday church
and fox-hunting. If only someone had been upset! But
this wedding had gone off so particularly well "quite
like a Durbar" in the opinion of Lady Edser, and she
thoroughly agreed with her.
So the wasted day lumbered forward, the bride and
bridegroom drove off, yelling with laughter, and for the
second time the sun retreated towards the hills of Wales.
Henry, who was more tired than he owned, came up to
her in the castle meadow and, in tones of unusual soft-
ness, said that he was pleased. Everything had gone off
so well. She felt that he was praising her, too, and
232
blushed; certainly she had done all she could with his
intractable friends, and had made a special point of kow-
towing to the men. They were breaking camp this eve-
ning: only the Warringtons and the quiet child would
stay the night, and the others were already moving to-
wards the house to finish their packing. "I think it did
go off well/' she agreed. " Since I had to jump out of
the motor, I'm thankful I lighted on my left hand. I am
so very glad about it, Henry dear; I only hope that the
guests at ours may be half as comfortable. You must all
remember that we have no practical person among us,
except my aunt, and she is not used to entertainments
on a large scale."
"I know," he said gravely. "Under the circum-
stances, it would be better to put everything into the
hands of Harrod's or Whiteley's, or even to go to some
hotel."
"You desire a hotel?"
"Yes, because well, I mustn't interfere with you. No
doubt you want to be married from your old home."
"My old home's falling into pieces, Henry. I only
want my new. Isn't it a perfect evening"
"The Alexandrina isn't bad"
"The Alexandrina," she echoed, more occupied with
the threads of smoke that were issuing from their chim-
neys, and ruling the sunlit slopes with parallels of grey.
"It's off Curzon Street."
"Is it? Let's be married from off Curzon Street."
Then she turned westward, to gaze at the swirling
gold. Just where the river rounded the hill the sun
caught it. Fairyland must lie above the bend, and its
precious liquid was pouring towards them past Charles's
bathing-shed. She gazed so long that her eyes were daz-
zled, and when they moved back to the house, she could
not recognize the faces of people who were coming out
of it. A parlour-maid was preceding them.
"Who are those people?" she asked.
"They're callers!" exclaimed Henry. "It's too late for
callers."
"Perhaps they're town people who want to see the
wedding presents."
"Fm not at home yet to townees."
"Well, hide among the ruins, and if I can stop them,
I will."
He thanked her.
Margaret went forward, smiling socially. She sup-
posed that these were unpunctual guests, who would
have to be content with vicarious civility, since Evie and
Charles were gone, Henry tired, and the others in their
rooms. She assumed the airs of a hostess; not for long.
For one of the group was Helen Helen in her oldest
clothes, and dominated by that tense, wounding excite-
ment that had made her a terror in their nursery days.
"What is it?" she called. "Oh, what's wrong? Is Tibby
ill?"
Helen spoke to her two companions, who fell back.
Then she bore forward furiously.
"They're starving!" she shouted. "I found them
starving!"
"Who? Why have you come?"
"The Basts."
"Oh, Helen!" moaned Margaret. "Whatever have you
done now?"
"He has lost his place. He has been turned out of his
bank. Yes, he's done for. We upper classes have ruined
him, and I suppose you'll tell me it's the battle of life.
Starving. His wife is ill. Starving. She fainted in the
train."
"Helen, are you mad?"
"Perhaps. Yes. If you like, I'm mad. But I've brought
them. I'll stand injustice no longer. I'll show up the
wretchedness that Hes under this luxury, this talk of im-
234
personal forces, this cant about God doing what we're
too slack to do ourselves."
"Have you actually brought two starving people from
London to Shropshire, Helen?"
Helen was checked. She had not thought of this, and
her hysteria abated. "There was a restaurant car on the
train," she said.
"Don't be absurd. They aren't starving, and you
know it. Now, begin from the beginning. I won't have
such theatrical nonsense. How dare you! Yes, how dare
you!" she repeated, as anger filled her, "bursting in to
Evie's wedding in this heartless way. My goodness! but
you've a perverted notion of philanthropy. Look" -she
indicated the house "servants, people out of the win-
dows. They think it's some vulgar scandal, and I must
explain: 'Oh no, it's only my sister screaming, and only
two hangers-on of ours, whom she has brought here for
no conceivable reason/ "
"Kindly take back that word 'hangers-on/ " said
Helen, ominously calm.
"Very well," conceded Margaret, who for all her
wrath was determined to avoid a real quarrel. "I, too,
am sorry about them, but it beats me why you've
brought them here, or why you're here yourself/'
"It's our last chance of seeing Mr. Wilcox."
Margaret moved towards the house at this. She was
determined not to worry Henry.
"He's going to Scotland. I know he is. I insist on
seeing him."
"Yes, tomorrow."
"I knew it was our last chance."
"How do you do, Mr. Bast?" said Margaret, trying
to control her voice. "This is an odd business. What
view do you take of it?"
"There is Mrs. Bast, too," prompted Helen.
Jacky also shook hands. She, like her husband, was
235
shy, and, furthermore, ill, and furthermore, so bestially
stupid that she could not grasp what was happening.
She only knew that the lady had swept down like a
whirlwind last night, had paid the rent, redeemed the
furniture, provided them with a dinner and breakfast,
and ordered them to meet her at Paddington next morn-
ing. Leonard had feebly protested, and when the morn-
ing came, had suggested that they shouldn't go. But she,
half mesmerized, had obeyed. The lady had told them
to, and they must, and their bed-sitting-room had ac-
cordingly changed into Paddington, and Paddington into
a railway carriage that shook, and grew hot, and grew
cold, and vanished entirely, and reappeared amid tor-
rents of expensive scent. "You have fainted," said the
lady in an awe-struck voice. "Perhaps the air will do
you good." And perhaps it had, for here she was, feel-
ing rather better among a lot of flowers.
"I'm sure I don't want to intrude," began Leonard,
in answer to Margaret's question. "But you have been
so kind to me in the past in warning me about the
Porphyrion that I wondered why, I wondered
whether"
"Whether we could get him back into the Porphyrion
again," supplied Helen. "Meg, this had been a cheerful
business. A bright evening's work that was on Chelsea
Embankment."
Margaret shook her head and returned to Mr. Bast.
"I don't understand. You left the Porphyrion because
we suggested it was a bad concern, didn't you?"
"That's right."
"And went into a bank instead?"
"I told you all that," said Helen; "and they reduced
their staff after he had been in a month, and now he's
penniless, and I consider that we and our informant are
directly to blame."
"I hate all this," Leonard muttered.
"I hope you do, Mr. Bast. But it's no good mincing
236
matters. You have done yourself no good by coining
here. If you intend to confront Mr. Wilcox, and to call
him to account for a chance remark, you will make a
very great mistake/'
"I brought them. I did it all/' cried Helen.
"I can only advise you to go at once. My sister has
put you in a false position, and it is kindest to tell you
so. It's too late to get to town, but you'll find a com-
fortable hotel in Oniton, where Mrs. Bast can rest, and
I hope you'll be my guests there/'
"That isn't what I want, Miss Schlegel," said Leon-
ard. "You're very kind, and no doubt it's a false posi-
tion, but you make me miserable. I seem no good at
all."
"It's work he wants," interpreted Helen. "Can't you
see?"
Then he said: "Jacky, let's go. We're more bother
than we're worth. We're costing these ladies pounds
and pounds already to get work for us, and they never
will. There's nothing we're good enough to do."
"We would like to find you work," said Margaret
rather conventionally. "We want to I, like my sister.
You're only down in your luck. Go to the hotel, have a
good night's rest, and some day you shall pay me back
the bill, if you prefer it."
But Leonard was near the abyss, and at such mo-
ments men see clearly. "You don't know what you're
talking about," he said. "I shall never get work now. If
rich people fail at one profession, they can try another.
Not I. I had my groove, and I've got out of it. I could
do one particular branch of insurance in one particular
office well enough to command a salary, but that's all.
Poetry's nothing, Miss Schlegel. One's thoughts about
this and that are nothing. Your money, too, is nothing,
if you'll understand me. I mean if a man over twenty
once loses his own particular job, it's all over with him.
I have seen it happen to others. Their friends gave them
237
money for a little, but in the end they fall over the edge.
It's no good. It's the whole world pulling. There always
will be rich and poor."
He ceased.
"Won't you have something to eat?" said Margaret.
"I don't know what to do. It isn't my house, and though
Mr. Wilcox would have been glad to see you at any other
time as I say, I don't know what to do, but I undertake
to do what I can for you. Helen, offer them something.
Do try a sandwich, Mrs. Bast."
They moved to a long table behind which a servant
was still standing. Iced cakes, sandwiches innumerable,
coffee, claret-cup, champagne, remained almost intact:
their overfed guests could do no more. Leonard refused.
Jacky thought she could manage a little. Margaret left
them whispering together and had a few more words
with Helen.
She said: "Helen, I like Mr. Bast. I agree that he's
worth helping. I agree that we are directly responsible."
"No, indirectly. Via Mr. Wilcox."
"Let me tell you once for all that if you take up that
attitude, I'll do nothing. No doubt you're right logically,
and are entitled to say a great many scathing things
about Henry. Only, I won't have it. So choose."
Helen looked at the sunset.
"If you promise to take them quietly to the George,
I will speak to Henry about them in my own way,
mind; there is to be none of this absurd screaming about
justice. I have no use for justice. If it was only a question
of money, we could do it ourselves. But he wants work,
and that we can't give him, but possibly Henry can."
"It's his duty to," grumbled Helen.
"Nor am I concerned with duty. I'm concerned with
the characters of various people whom we know, and
how, things being as they are, things may be made a
little better. Mr. Wilcox hates being asked favours; all
238
business men do. But I am going to ask him, at the risk
of a rebuff, because I want to make things a little bet-
ter."
"Very well. I promise. You take it very calmly,"
"Take them off to the George, then, and I'll try. Poor
creatures! but they look tired." As they parted, she
added: "I haven't nearly done with you, though, Helen.
You have been most self-indulgent. I can't get over it.
You have less restraint rather than more as you grow
older. Think it over and alter yourself, or we shan't have
happy lives."
She rejoined Henry. Fortunately he had been sitting
down: these physical matters were important. "Was it
townees?" he asked, greeting her with a pleasant smile.
"You'll never believe me/' said Margaret, sitting
down beside him. "It's all right now, but it was my
sister."
"Helen here?" he cried, preparing to rise. "But she
refused the invitation. I thought she despised wed-
dings."
"Don't get up. She has not come to the wedding. I've
bundled her off to the George."
Inherently hospitable, he protested.
"No; she has two of her protgs with her, and must
keep with them."
"Let 'em all come."
"My dear Henry, did you see them?"
"I did catch sight of a brown bunch of a woman, cer-
tainly."
"The brown bunch was Helen, but did you catch sight
of a sea-green and salmon bunch?"
"What! are they out beanf easting?"
"No; business. They wanted to see me, and later on
I want to talk to you about them."
She was ashamed of her own diplomacy. In dealing
with a Wilcox, how tempting it was to lapse from com-
radeship, and to give him the kind of woman that he
desired! Henry took the hint at once, and said: "Why
later on? Tell me now. No time like the present."
"Shall I?"
"If it isn't a long story."
"Oh, not five minutes; but there's a sting at the end
of it, for I want you to find the man some work in your
office."
"What are his qualifications?"
"I don't know. He's a clerk."
"How old?"
"Twenty-five, perhaps."
"What's his name?"
"Bast," said Margaret, and was about to remind him
that they had met at Wickham Place, but stopped her-
self. It had not been a successful meeting.
"Where was he before?"
"Dempster's Bank."
"Why did he leave?" he asked, still remembering
nothing.
"They reduced their staff."
"All right; I'll see him."
It was the reward of her tact and devotion through
the day. Now she understood why some women prefer
influence to rights. Mrs. Plynlimmon, when condemn-
ing suffragettes, had said: "The woman who can't influ-
ence her husband to vote the way she wants ought to
be ashamed of herself." Margaret had winced, but she
was influencing Henry now, and though pleased at her
little victory, she knew that she had won it by the meth-
ods of the harem.
"I should be glad if you took him," she said, "but I
don't know whether he's qualified."
"I'll do what I can. But, Margaret, this mustn't be
taken as a precedent."
"No, of course of course"
240
"I can't fit in your protgs every day. Business
would suffer."
"I can promise you he's the last. Hehe's rather a
special case."
"Protgs always are."
She let it stand at that. He rose with a little extra
touch of complacency, and held out his hand to help
her up. How wide the gulf between Henry as he was
and Henry as Helen thought he ought to be! And she
herselfhovering as usual between the two, now ac-
cepting men as they are, now yearning with her sister
for Truth. Love and Truth their warfare seems eternal.
Perhaps the whole visible world rests on it, and if they
were one, life itself, like the spirits when Prospero was
reconciled to his brother, might vanish into air, into thin
air.
"Your protg has made us late," said he. "The Fus-
sells will just be starting."
On the whole, she sided with men as they are. Henry
would save the Basts, as he had saved Howards End,
while Helen and her friends were discussing the ethics
of salvation. His was a slap-dash method, but the world
has been built slap-dash, and the beauty of mountain
and river and sunset may be but the varnish with which
the unskilled artificer hides his joins. Oniton, like her-
self, was imperfect. Its apple-trees were stunted, its cas-
tle ruinous. It, too, had suffered in the border warfare
between the Anglo-Saxon and the Kelt, between things
as they are and as they ought to be. Once more the west
was retreating, once again the orderly stars were dotting
the eastern sky. There is certainly no rest for us on the
earth. But there is happiness, and as Margaret de-
scended the mound on her lover's arm, she felt that she
was having her share.
To her annoyance, Mrs. Bast was still in the garden;
the husband and Helen had left her there to finish her
241
meal while they went to engage rooms. Margaret found
this woman repellent. She had felt, when shaking her
hand, an overpowering shame. She remembered the
motive of her call at Wickham Place, and smelt again
odours from the abyss odours the more disturbing be-
cause they were involuntary. For there was no malice in
Jacky. There she sat, a piece of cake in one hand, an
empty champagne glass in the other, doing no harm to
anybody.
"She's overtired," Margaret whispered.
"She's something else," said Henry. "This won't do.
I can't have her in my garden in this state."
"Is she" Margaret hesitated to add "drunk." Now
that she was going to marry him, he had grown partic-
ular. He discountenanced risqu conversations now.
Henry went up to the woman. She raised her face,
which gleamed in the twilight like a puff-ball.
"Madam, you will be more comfortable at the hotel,"
he said sharply.
Jacky replied: "If it isn't Hen!"
"Ne crois pas que le mari lui ressemble," apologized
Margaret. "II est tout a fait different."
"Henry!" she repeated, quite distinctly.
Mr. Wilcox was much annoyed. "I can't congratulate
you on your proteges," he remarked.
"Hen, don't go. You do love me, dear, don't you?"
"Bless us, what a person!" sighed Margaret, gather-
ing up her skirts.
Jacky pointed with her cake. "You're a nice boy, you
are." She yawned. "There now, I love you."
7 'Henry, I am awfully sorry."
"And pray why?" he asked, and looked at her so
sternly that she feared he was ill. He seemed more scan-
dalized than the facts demanded.
"To have brought this down on you."
"Pray don't apologize."
The voice continued.
242
"Why does she call you 'Hen'?" said Margaret in-
nocently. "Has she ever seen you before?"
"Seen Hen before!" said Jacky. "Who hasn't seen
Hen? He's serving you like me, my dear. These boys!
You wait Still we love 'em/'
"Are you now satisfied?" Henry asked.
Margaret began to grow frightened. "I don't know
what it is all about," she said. "Let's come in."
But he thought she was acting. He thought he was
trapped. He saw his whole life crumbling. "Don't you
indeed?" he said bitingly. "I do. Allow me to congrat-
ulate you on the success of your plan."
"This is Helen's plan, not mine."
"I now understand your interest in the Basts. Very
well thought out. I am amused at your caution, Marga-
ret. You are quite right it was necessary. I am a man,
and have lived a main's past. I have the honour to re-
lease you from your engagement."
Still she could not understand. She knew of life's
seamy side as a theory; she could not grasp it as a fact.
More words from Jacky were necessary words un-
equivocal, undenied.
"So that" burst from her, and she went indoors.
She stopped herself from saying more.
"So what?" asked Colonel Fussell, who was getting
ready to start in the hall.
"We were saying Henry and I were just having the
fiercest argument, my point being" Seizing his fur coat
from a footman, she offered to help him on. He pro-
tested, and there was a playful little scene.
"No, let me do that," said Henry, following.
"Thanks so much! You see he has forgiven me!"
The Colonel said gallantly: "I don't expect there's
much to forgive."
He got into the car. The ladies followed him after an
interval. Maids, courier, and heavier luggage had been
sent on earlier by the branch-line. Still chattering, still
243
thanking their host and patronizing their future hostess,
the guests were borne away.
Then Margaret continued: "So that woman has been
your mistress?"
"You put it with your usual delicacy," he replied.
"When, please?"
"Why?"
"When, please?"
"Ten years ago."
She left him without a word. For it was not her trag-
edy: it was Mrs. Wilcox's.
CHAPTER
27
Helen began to wonder why she had spent a matter of
eight pounds in making some people ill and others an-
gry. Now that the wave of excitement was ebbing, and
had left her, Mr. Bast, and Mrs. Bast stranded for the
night in a Shropshire hotel, she asked herself what
forces had made the wave flow. At all events, no harm
was done. Margaret would play the game properly now,
and though Helen disapproved of her sister's methods,
she knew that the Basts would benefit by them in the
long run.
"Mr. Wilcox is so illogical," she explained to Leon-
ard, who had put his wife to bed and was sitting with
her in the empty coffee-room. "If we told him it was his
duty to take you on, he might refuse to do it. The fact
is, he isn't properly educated. I don't want to set you
against him, but you'll find him a trial."
"I can never thank you sufficiently, Miss Schlegel,"
was all that -Leonard felt equal to.
"I believe in personal responsibility. Don't you? And
in personal everything. I hate I suppose I oughtn't to
244
say that but the Wilcoxes are on the wrong tack surely.
Or perhaps it isn't their fault. Perhaps the little thing
that says T is missing out of the middle of their heads,
and then it's a waste of time to blame them. There's a
nightmare of a theory that says a special race is being
born which will rule the rest of us in the future just
because it lacks the little thing that says 'I/ Had you
heard that?"
"I get no time for reading."
"Had you thought it, then? That there are two kinds
of people our kind, who live straight from the middle
of their heads, and the other kind who can't, because
their heads have no middle? They can't say 'I.' They
aren't in fact, and so they're supermen. Pierpont Mor-
gan has never said T in his life."
Leonard roused himself. If his benefactress wanted
intellectual conversation, she must have it. She was
more important than his ruined past. "I never got on to
Nietzche," he said. "But I always understood that those
supermen were rather what you may call egoists."
"Oh, no, that's wrong," replied Helen. "No super-
man ever said 'I want/ because 'I want' must lead to
the question 'Who am IT and so to Pity and to Justice.
He only says 'want/ 'Want Europe/ if he's Napoleon:
'want wives/ if he's Bluebeard; 'want Botticelli/ if he's
Pierpont Morgan. Never the T; and if you could pierce
through him, you'd find panic and emptiness in the
middle."
Leonard was silent for a moment. Then he said: "May
I take it, Miss Schlegel, that you and I are both the sort
that say T?"
"Of course."
"And your sister too?"
"Of course," repeated Helen, a little sharply. She was
annoyed with Margaret, but did not want her discussed.
"All presentable people say 'I/ "
"But Mr. Wilcox he is not perhaps"
245
"I don't know that it's any good discussing Mr. Wil-
cox either."
"Quite so, quite so," he agreed. Helen asked herself
why she had snubbed him. Once or twice during the
day she had encouraged him to criticize, and then had
pulled him up short. Was she afraid of him presuming?
If so, it was disgusting of her.
But he was thinking the snub quite natural. Every-
thing she did was natural, and incapable of causing of-
fence. While the Miss Schlegels were together, he had
felt them scarcely human a sort of admonitory whirli-
gig. But a Miss Schlegel alone was different. She was in
Helen's case unmarried, in Margaret's about to be mar-
ried, in neither case an echo of her sister. A light had
fallen at last into this rich upper world, and he saw that
it was full of men and women, some of whom were
more friendly to him than others. Helen had become
"his" Miss Schlegel, who scolded him and corre-
sponded with him, and had swept down yesterday with
grateful vehemence. Margaret, though not unkind, was
severe and remote. He would not presume to help her,
for instance. He had never liked her, and began to think
that his original impression was true, and that her sister
did not like her either. Helen was certainly lonely. She,
who gave away so much, was receiving too little. Leon-
ard was pleased to think that he could spare her vexa-
tion by holding his tongue and concealing what he knew
about Mr. Wilcox. Jacky had announced her discovery
when he fetched her from the lawn. After the first shock,
he did not mind for himself. By now he had no illusions
about his wife, and this was only one new stain on the
face of a love that had never been pure. To keep perfec-
tion perfect, that should be his ideal, if the future gave
him time to have ideals. Helen, and Margaret for Hel-
en's sake, must not know.
Helen disconcerted him by turning the conversation
246
to his wife. "Mrs. Bast does she ever say T?" she
asked, half mischievously, and then: "Is she very tired?"
"It's better she stops in her room," said Leonard.
"Shall I sit up with her?"
"No, thank you; she does not need company."
"Mr. Bast, what kind of woman is your wife?"
Leonard blushed up to his eyes.
"You ought to know my ways by now. Does that
question offend you?"
"No, oh no, Miss Schlegel, no."
"Because I love honesty. Don't pretend your mar-
riage has been a happy one. You and she can have noth-
ing in common."
He did not deny it, but said shyly: "I suppose that's
pretty obvious; but Jacky never meant to do anybody
any harm. When things went wrong, or I heard things,
I used to think it was her fault, but, looking back, it's
more mine. I needn't have married her, but as I have, I
must stick to her and keep her."
"How long have you been married?"
"Nearly three years."
"What did your people say?"
"They will not have anything to do with us. They had
a sort of family council when they heard I was married,
and cut us off altogether."
Helen began to pace up and down the room. "My
good boy, what a mess!" she said gently. "Who are
your people?"
He could answer this. His parents, who were dead,
had been in trade; his sisters had married commercial
travellers; his brother was a lay reader.
"And your grandparents?"
Leonard told her a secret that he had held shameful
up to now. "They were just nothing at all," he said,
" agricultural labourers and that sort."
"So! From which part?"
' 'Lincolnshire mostly, but my mother's father he,
oddly enough, came from these parts round here/'
"From this very Shropshire. Yes, that is odd. My
mother's people were Lancashire. But why do your
brother and your sisters object to Mrs. Bast?"
"Oh, I don't know."
"Excuse me, you do know. I am not a baby. I can
bear anything you tell me, and the more you tell, the
more I shall be able to help. Have they heard anything
against her?"
He was silent.
"I think I have guessed now," said Helen very
gravely.
"I don't think so, Miss Schlegel; I hope not."
"We must be honest, even over these things. I have
guessed. I am frightfully, dreadfully sorry, but it does
not make the least difference to me. I shall feel just the
same to both of you. I blame, not your wife for these
things, but men."
Leonard left it at that so long as she did not guess
the man. She stood at the window and slowly pulled up
the blinds. The hotel looked over a dark square. The
mists had begun. When she turned back to him her eyes
were shining.
"Don't you worry," he pleaded. "I can't bear that.
We shall be all right if I get work. If I could only get
work something regular to do. Then it wouldn't be so
bad again. I don't trouble after books as I used. I can
imagine that with regular work we should settle down
again. It stops one thinking."
"Settle down to what?"
"Oh, just settle down."
"And that's to be life!" said Helen, with a catch in
her throat. "How can you, with all the beautiful things
to see and do with music with walking at night"
"Walking is well enough when a man's in work," he
answered. "Oh, I did talk a lot of nonsense once, but
248
there's nothing like a bailiff in the house to drive it out
of you. When I saw you fingering my Ruskins and Stev-
ensons, I seemed to see life straight real, and it isn't a
pretty sight. My books are back again, thanks to you,
but they'll never be the same to me again, and I shan't
ever again think night in the woods is wonderful."
"Why not?" asked Helen, throwing up the window.
"Because I see one must have money."
"Well, you're wrong."
"I wish I was wrong, but the clergyman he has
money on his own, or else he's paid; the poet or the
musician just the same; the tramp he's no different.
The tramp goes to the workhouse in the end, and is paid
for with other people's money. Miss Schlegel, the real
thing's money and all the rest is a dream."
"You're still wrong. You've forgotten Death."
Leonard could not understand.
"If we lived for ever, what you say would be true.
But we have to die, we have to leave life presently. In-
justice and greed would be the real thing if we lived for
ever. As it is, we must hold to other things, because
Death is coming. I love Death not morbidly, but be-
cause He explains. He shows me the emptiness of
Money. Death and Money are the eternal foes. Not
Death and Life. Never mind what lies behind Death,
Mr. Bast, but be sure that the poet and the musician and
the tramp will be happier in it than the man who has
never learnt to say 'I am I/ "
"I wonder."
"We are all in a mist I know but I can help you this
far men like the Wilcoxes are deeper in the mist than
any. Sane, sound Englishmen! building up empires, lev-
elling all the world into what they call common sense.
But mention Death to them and they're offended, be-
cause Death's really Imperial, and He cries out against
them forever."
"I am as afraid of Death as any one."
249
"But not of the idea of Death/'
"But what is the difference?"
"Infinite difference," said Helen, more gravely than
before.
Leonard looked at her wondering, and had the sense
of great things sweeping out of the shrouded night. But
he could not receive them, because his heart was still
full of little things. As the lost umbrella had spoilt the
concert as Queen's Hall, so the lost situation was ob-
scuring the diviner harmonies now. Death, Life, and
Materialism were fine words, but would Mr. Wilcox take
him on as a clerk? Talk as one would, Mr. Wilcox was
king of this world, the superman, with his own moral-
ity, whose head remained in the clouds.
"I must be stupid," he said apologetically.
While to Helen the paradox became clearer and
clearer. "Death destroys a man: the idea of Death 'saves
him." Behind the coffins and the skeletons that stay the
vulgar mind lies something so immense that all that is
great in us responds to it. Men of the world may recoil
from the charnel-house that they will one day enter, but
Love knows better. Death is his foe, but his peer, and
in their age-long struggle the thews of Love have been
strengthened, and his vision cleared, until there is no
one who can stand against him.
"So never give in," continued the girl, and restated
again and again the vague yet convincing plea that the
Invisible lodges against the Visible. Her excitement grew
as she tried to cut the rope that fastened Leonard to the
earth. Woven of bitter experience, it resisted her. Pres-
ently the waitress entered and gave her a letter from
Margaret. Another note, addressed to Leonard, was in-
side. They read them, listening to the murmurings of
the river.
250
CHAPTER
28
For many hours Margaret did nothing; then she con-
trolled herself, and wrote some letters. She was too
bruised to speak to Henry; she could pity him, and even
determine to marry him, but as yet all lay too deep in
her heart for speech. On the surface the sense of his
degradation was too strong. She could not command
voice or look, and the gentle words that she forced out
through her pen seemed to proceed from some other
person.
"My dearest boy/ 7 she began, "this is not to part us.
It is everything or nothing, and I mean it to be nothing.
It happened long before we ever met, and even if it had
happened since, I should be writing the same, I hope. I
do understand.
But she crossed out "I do understand"; it struck a
false note. Henry could not bear to be understood. She
also crossed out "It is everything or nothing." Henry
would resent so strong a grasp of the situation. She must
not comment; comment is unfeminine.
"I think that'll about do," she thought.
Then the sense of his degradation choked her. Was
he worth all this bother? To have yielded to a woman of
that sort was everything, yes, it was, and she could not
be his wife. She tried to translate his temptation into her
own language, and her brain reeled. Men must be dif-
ferent, even to want to yield to such a temptation. Her
belief in comradeship was stifled, and she saw life as
from that glass saloon on the Great Western, which
sheltered male and female alike from the fresh air. Are
the sexes really races, each with its own code of moral-
ity, and their mutual love a mere device of Nature to
251
keep things going? Strip human intercourse of the pro-
prieties, and is it reduced to this? Her judgment told her
no. She knew that out of Nature's device we have built
a magic that will win us immortality. Far more mysteri-
ous than the call of sex to sex is the tenderness that we
throw into that call; far wider is the gulf between us and
the farmyard than between the farmyard and the gar-
bage that nourishes it. We are evolving, in ways that
Science cannot measure, to ends that Theology dares
not contemplate. "Men did produce one jewel/' the
gods will say, and, saying, will give us immortality.
Margaret knew all this, but for the moment she could
not feel it, and transformed the marriage of Evie and Mr.
Cahill into a carnival of fools, and her own marriage
too miserable to think of that, she tore up the letter, and
then wrote another:
Dear Mr. Bast,
I have spoken to Mr. Wilcox about you, as I prom-
ised, and am sorry to say that he has no vacancy for you.
'Yours truly,
M. J. Schlegel
She enclosed this in a note to Helen, over which she
took less trouble than she might have done; but her head
was aching, and she could not stop to pick her words:
Dear Helen,
Give him this. The Basts are no good. Henry found
the woman drunk on the lawn. I am having a room got
ready for you here, and will you please come round at
once on getting this? The Basts are not at all the type we
should trouble about. I may go round to them myself in
the morning, and do anything that is fair.
M
In writing this, Margaret felt that she was being prac-
tical. Something might be arranged for the Basts later
on, but they must be silenced for the moment. She
hoped to avoid a conversation between the woman and
252
Helen. She rang the bell for a servant, but no one an-
swered it; Mr. Wilcox and the Warringtons were gone
to bed, and the kitchen was abandoned to Saturnalia.
Consequently she went over to the George herself. She
did not enter the hotel, for discussion would have been
perilous, and, saying that the letter was important, she
gave it to the waitress. As she recrossed the square she
saw Helen and Mr. Bast looking out of the window of
the coffee-room, and feared she was already too late.
Her task was not yet over; she ought to tell Henry what
she had done.
This came easily, for she saw him in the hall. The
night wind had been rattling the pictures against the
wall, and the noise had disturbed him.
"Who's there?" he called, quite the householder.
Margaret walked in and past him.
"I have asked Helen to sleep," she said. "She is best
here; so don't lock the front door."
"I thought someone had got in," said Henry.
"At the same time I told the man that we could do
nothing for him. I don't know about later, but now the
Basts must clearly go."
"Did you say that your sister is sleeping here, after
all?"
"Probably."
"Is she to be shown up to your room?"
"I have naturally nothing to say to her; I am going to
bed. Will you tell the servants about Helen? Could
someone go to carry her bag?"
He tapped a little gong, which had been bought to
summon the servants.
"You must make more noise than that if you want
them to hear."
Henry opened a door, and down the corridor came
shouts of laughter. "Far too much screaming there," he
said, and strode towards it. Margaret went upstairs, un-
certain whether to be glad that they had met, or sorry.
They had behaved as if nothing had happened, and her
deepest instincts told her that this was wrong. For his
own sake, some explanation was due.
And yet what could an explanation tell her? A date,
a place, a few details, which she could imagine all too
clearly. Now that the first shock was over, she saw that
there was every reason to premise a Mrs. Bast. Henry's
inner life had long laid open to her his intellectual con-
fusion, his obtuseness to personal influence, his strong
but furtive passions. Should she refuse him because his
outer life corresponded? Perhaps. Perhaps, if the dis-
honour had been done to her, but it was done long be-
fore her day. She struggled against the feeling. She told
herself that Mrs. Wilcox' s wrong was her own. But she
was not a barren theorist. As she undressed, her anger,
her regard for the dead, her desire for a scene, all grew
weak. Henry must have it as he liked, for she loved him,
and some day she would use her love to make him a
better man.
Pity was at the bottom of her actions all through this
crisis. Pity, if one may generalize, is at the bottom of
woman. When men like us, it is for our better qualities,
and however tender their liking, we dare not be unwor-
thy of it, or they will quietly let us go. But unworthiness
stimulates woman. It brings out her deeper nature, for
good or for evil.
Here was the core of the question. Henry must be
forgiven, and made better by love; nothing else mat-
tered. Mrs. Wilcox, that unquiet yet kindly ghost, must
be left to her own wrong. To her everything was in pro-
portion now, and she, too, would pity the man who was
blundering up and down their lives. Had Mrs. Wilcox
known of his trespass? An interesting question, but
Margaret fell asleep, tethered by affection, and lulled by
the murmurs of the river that descended all the night
from Wales. She felt herself at one with her future home,
254
colouring it and coloured by it, and awoke to see, for
the second time, Oniton Castle conquering the morning
mists.
CHAPTER
29
"Henry dear " was her greeting.
He had finished his breakfast, and was beginning the
Times. His sister-in-law was packing. She knelt by him
and took the paper from him, feeling that it was unusu-
ally heavy and thick. Then, putting her face where it
had been, she looked up in his eyes.
' 'Henry dear, look at me. No, I won't have you shirk-
ing. Look at me. There. That's all."
"You're referring to last evening," he said huskily.
"I have released you from your engagement. I could
find excuses, but I won't. No, I won't. A thousand times
no. I'm a bad lot, and must be left at that."
Expelled from his old fortress, Mr. Wilcox was build-
ing a new one. He could no longer appear respectable
to her, so he defended himself instead in a lurid past. It
was not true repentance.
"Leave it where you will, boy. It's not going to trou-
ble us: I know what I'm talking about, and it will make
no difference."
"No difference?" he inquired. "No difference, when
you find that I am not the fellow you thought?" He was
annoyed with Miss Schlegel here. He would have pre-
ferred her to be prostrated by the blow, or even to rage.
Against the tide of his sin flowed the feeling that she
was not altogether womanly. Her eyes gazed too
straight; they had read books that are suitable for men
only. And though he had dreaded a scene, and though
she had determined against one, there was a scene, all
the same. It was somehow imperative.
"I am unworthy of you," he began. "Had I been
worthy, I should not have released you from your en-
gagement. I know what I am talking about. I can't bear
to talk of such things. We had better leave it."
She kissed his hand. He jerked it from her, and, ris-
ing to his feet, went on: "You, with your sheltered life,
and refined pursuits, and friends, and books, you and
your sister, and women like you I say, how can you
guess the temptations that lie round a man?"
"It is difficult for us," said Margaret; "but if we are
worth marrying, we do guess."
"Cut off from decent society and family ties, what do
you suppose happens to thousands of young fellows
overseas? Isolated. No one near. I know by bitter expe-
rience, and yet you say it makes 'no difference/ "
"Not to me."
He laughed bitterly. Margaret went to the sideboard
and helped herself to one of the breakfast dishes. Being
the last down, she turned out the spirit-lamp that kept
them warm. She was tender, but grave. She knew that
Henry was not so much confessing his soul as pointing
out the gulf between the male soul and the female, and
she did not desire to hear him on this point.
"Did Helen come?" she asked.
He shook his head.
"But that won't do at all, at all! We don't want her
gossiping with Mrs. Bast."
"Good God! no!" he exclaimed, suddenly natural.
Then he caught himself up. "Let them gossip. My
game's up, though I thank you for your unselfishness-
little as my thanks are worth."
"Didn't she send me a message or anything?"
"I heard of none."
"Would you ring the bell, please?"
256
"What to do?"
"Why, to inquire/'
He swaggered up to it tragically, and sounded a peal.
Margaret poured herself out some coffee. The butler
came, and said that Miss Schlegel had slept at the
George, so far as he had heard. Should he go round to
the George?
"I'll go, thank you," said Margaret, and dismissed
him.
"It is no good," said Henry. "Those things leak out;
you cannot stop a story once it has started. I have known
cases of other men I despised them once, I thought that
I'm different, I shall never be tempted. Oh, Margaret"
He came and sat down near her, improvising emotion.
She could not bear to listen to him. "We fellows all come
to grief once in our time. Will you believe that? There
are moments when the strongest man 'Let him who
standeth, take heed lest he fall.' That's true, isn't it? If
you knew all, you would excuse me. I was far from good
influences far even from England. I was very, very
lonely, and longed for a woman's voice. That's enough.
I have told you too much already for you to forgive me
now."
"Yes, that's enough, dear."
"I have" he lowered his voice "I have been
through hell."
Gravely she considered this claim. Had he? Had he
suffered tortures of remorse, or had it been "There!
that's over. Now for respectable life again"? The latter,
if she read him rightly. A man who has been through
hell does not boast of his virility. He is humble and hides
it, if, indeed, it still exists. Only in legend does the sin-
ner come forth penitent, but terrible, to conquer pure
woman by his resistless power. Henry was anxious to
be terrible, but had not got it in him. He was a good
average Englishman who had slipped. The really cul-
257
pable point his faithlessness to Mrs. Wilcox never
seemed to strike him. She longed to mention Mrs. Wil-
cox.
And bit by bit the story was told her. It was a very
simple story. Ten years ago was the time, a garrison
town in Cyprus the place. Now and then he asked her
whether she could possibly forgive him, and she an-
swered: "I have already forgiven you, Henry." She
chose her words carefully, and so saved him from panic.
She played the girl, until he could rebuild his fortress
and hide his soul from the world. When the butler came
to clear away, Henry was in a very different mood-
asked the fellow what he was in such a hurry for, com-
plained of the noise last night in the servants' hall.
Margaret looked intently at the butler. He, as a hand-
some young man, was faintly attractive to her as a
woman an attraction so faint as scarcely to be percep-
tible, yet the skies would have fallen if she had men-
tioned it to Henry.
On her return from the George the building opera-
tions were complete, and the old Henry fronted her,
competent, cynical, and kind. He had made a clean
breast, had been forgiven, and the great thing now was
to forget his failure, and to send it the way of other
unsuccessful investments. Jacky rejoined Howards End
and Ducie Street, and the vermilion motor-car, and the
Argentine Hard Dollars, and all the things and people
for whom he had never had much use and had less now.
Their memory hampered him. He could scarcely attend
to Margaret, who brought back disquieting news from
the George. Helen and her clients had gone.
"Well, let them go the man and his wife, I mean,
for the more we see of your sister the better."
"But they have gone separately Helen very early,
the Basts just before I arrived. They have left no mes-
sage. They have answered neither of my notes. I don't
like to think what it all means."
258
"What did you say in the notes?"
"I told you last night."
"Oh ah yes! Dear, would you like one turn in the
garden?"
Margaret took his arm. The beautiful weather soothed
her. But the wheels of Evie's wedding were still at work,
tossing the guests outwards as deftly as they had drawn
them in, and she could not be with him long. It had
been arranged that they should motor to Shrewsbury,
whence he would go north, and she back to London
with the Warringtons. For a fraction of time she was
happy. Then her brain recommenced.
"I am afraid there has been gossiping of some kind
at the George. Helen would not have left unless she had
heard something. I mismanaged that. It is wretched. I
ought to have parted her from that woman at once."
"Margaret!" he exclaimed, loosing her arm impres-
sively.
"Yes-yes, Henry?"
"I am far from a saint in fact, the reverse but you
have taken me, for better or worse. Bygones must be
bygones. You gave promised to forgive me. Margaret, a
promise is a promise. Never mention that woman
again."
"Except for some practical reason never."
"Practical! You practical!"
"Yes, I'm practical," she murmured, stooping over
the mowing-machine and playing with the grass which
trickled through her fingers like sand.
He had silenced her, but her fears made him uneasy.
Not for the first time, he was threatened with blackmail.
He was rich and supposed to be moral; the Basts knew
that he was not, and might find it profitable to hint as
much.
"At all events, you mustn't worry," he said. "This is
a man's business." He thought intently. "On no ac-
count mention it to anybody."
259
Margaret flushed at advice so elementary, but he was
really paving the way for a lie. If necessary he would
deny that he had ever known Mrs. Bast, and prosecute
her for libel. Perhaps he never had known her. Here
was Margaret, who behaved as if he had not. There the
house. Round them were half a dozen gardeners, clear-
ing up after his daughter's wedding. All was so solid
and spruce that the past flew up out of sight like a
spring-blind, leaving only the last five minutes unrolled.
Glancing at these, he saw that the car would be round
during the next five, and plunged into action. Gongs
were tapped, orders issued, Margaret was sent to dress,
and the housemaid to sweep up the long trickle of grass
that she had left across the hall. As is Man to the Uni-
verse, so was the mind of Mr. Wilcox to the minds of
some men a concentrated light upon a tiny spot, a little
Ten Minutes moving self-contained through its ap-
pointed years. No Pagan he, who lives for the Now, and
may be wiser than all philosophers. He lived for the five
minutes that have past, and the five to come; he had the
business mind.
How did he stand now, as his motor slipped out of
Oniton and breasted the great round hills? Margaret had
heard a certain rumour, but was all right. She had for-
given him, God bless her, and he felt the manlier for it.
Charles and Evie had not heard it, and never must hear.
No more must Paul. Over his children he felt great ten-
derness, which he did not try to track to a cause: Mrs.
Wilcox was too far back in his life. He did not connect
her with the sudden aching love that he felt for Evie.
Poor little Evie! he trusted that Cahill would make her a
decent husband.
And Margaret? How did she stand?
She had several minor worries. Clearly her sister had
heard something. She dreaded meeting her in town.
And she was anxious about Leonard, for whom they
certainly were responsible. Nor ought Mrs. Bast to
260
starve. But the main situation had not altered. She still
loved Henry. His actions, not his disposition, had dis-
appointed her, and she could bear that. And she loved
her future home. Standing up in the car, just where she
had leapt from it two days before, she gazed back with
deep emotion upon Oniton. Besides the Grange and the
castle keep, she could now pick out the church and
the black-and-white gables of the George. There was the
bridge, and the river nibbling its green peninsula. She
could even see the bathing-shed, but while she was
looking for Charles's new springboard, the forehead of
the hill rose up and hid the whole scene.
She never saw it again. Day and night the river flows
down into England, day after day the sun retreats into
the Welsh mountains, and the tower chimes: "See the
Conquering Hero/ 7 But the Wilcoxes have no part in the
place, nor in any place. It is not their names that recur
in the parish register. It is not their ghosts that sigh
among the alders at evening. They have swept into tie
valley and swept out of it, leaving a little dust and a
little money behind.
CHAPTER
30
Tibby was now approaching his last year at Oxford. He
had moved out of college, and was contemplating the
Universe, or such portions of it as concerned him, from
his comfortable lodgings in Long Wall. He was not con-
cerned with much. When a young man is untroubled by
passions and sincerely indifferent to public opinion, his
outlook is necessarily limited. Tibby neither wished to
strengthen the position of the rich nor to improve that
of the poor, and so was well content to watch the elms
nodding behind the mildly embattled parapets of Mag-
261
dalen. There are worse lives. Though selfish, he was
never cruel; though affected in manner, he never posed.
Like Margaret, he disdained the heroic equipment, and
it was only after many visits that men discovered Schle-
gel to possess a character and a brain. He had done well
in Mods, much to the surprise of those who attended
lectures and took proper exercise, and was now glancing
disdainfully at Chinese in case he should some day con-
sent to qualify as a Student Interpreter. To him thus
employed Helen entered. A telegram had preceded her.
He noticed, in a distant way, that his sister had al-
tered. As a rule he found her too pronounced, and had
never come across this look of appeal, pathetic yet dig-
nifiedthe look of a sailor who has lost everything at
sea.
"I have come from Oniton," she began. "There has
been a great deal of trouble there."
"Who's for lunch?" said Tibby, picking up the claret
which was warming in the hearth. Helen sat down sub-
missively at the table. "Why such an early start?" he
asked.
"Sunrise or something when I could get away."
"So I surmise. Why?"
"I don't know what's to be done, Tibby. I am very
much upset at a piece of news that concerns Meg, and
do not want to face her, and I am not going back to
Wickham Place. I stopped here to tell you this."
The landlady came in with the cutlets. Tibby put a
marker in the leaves of his Chinese grammar and helped
them. Oxford the Oxford of the vacation dreamed and
rustled outside, and indoors the little fire was coated
with grey where the sunshine touched it. Helen contin-
ued her odd story.
"Give Meg my love and say that I want to be alone.
I mean to go to Munich or else Bonn."
"Such a message is easily given," said her brother.
262
"As regards Wickham Place and my share of the fur-
niture, you and she are to do exactly as you like. My
own feeling is that everything may just as well be sold.
What does one want with dusty economic books, which
have made the world no better, or with mother's hide-
ous chiffoniers? I have also another commission for you.
I want you to deliver a letter/' She got up. "I haven't
written it yet. Why shouldn't I post it, though?" She sat
down again. "My head is rather wretched. I hope that
none of your friends are likely to come in/'
Tibby locked the door. His friends often found it in
this condition. Then he asked whether anything had
gone wrong at Evie's wedding.
"Not there/' said Helen, and burst into tears.
He had known her hystericalit was one of her as-
pects with which he had no concernand yet these tears
touched him as something unusual. They were nearer
the things that did concern him, such as music. He laid
down his knife and looked at her curiously. Then, as
she continued to sob, he went on with his lunch. The
time came for the second course, and she was still cry-
ing. Apple Charlotte was to follow, which spoils by
waiting. "Do you mind Mrs. Martlett coining in?" he
asked, "or shall I take it from her at the door?"
"Could I bathe my eyes, Tibby?"
He took her to his bedroom, and introduced the pud-
ding in her absence. Having helped himself, he put it
down to warm in the hearth. His hand stretched to-
wards the grammar, and soon he was turning over the
pages, raising his eyebrows scornfully, perhaps at hu-
man nature, perhaps at Chinese, To him thus employed
Helen returned. She had pulled herself together, but the
grave appeal had not vanished from her eyes.
"Now for the explanation," she said. "Why didn't I
begin with it? I have found out something about Mr.
Wilcox. He has behaved very wrongly indeed, and ru-
263
ined two people's lives. It all came on me very suddenly
last night; I am very much upset, and I do not know
what to do. Mrs. Bast"
"Oh, those people!"
Helen seemed silenced.
"Shall I lock the door again?"
"No, thanks, Tibbikins. You're being very good to
me. I want to tell you the story before I go abroad. You
must do exactly what you like treat it as part of the
furniture. Meg cannot have heard it yet, I think. But I
cannot face her and tell her that the man she is going to
marry has misconducted himself. I don't even know
whether she ought to be told. Knowing as she does that
I dislike him, she will suspect me, and think that I want
to ruin her match. I simply don't know what to make of
such a thing. I trust your judgment. What would you
do?"
"I gather he has had a mistress," said Tibby.
Helen flushed with shame and anger. "And ruined
two people's lives. And goes about saying that personal
actions count for nothing, and there always will be rich
and poor. He met her when he was trying to get rich
out in Cyprus I don't wish to make him worse than he
is, and no doubt she was ready enough to meet him.
But there it is. They met. He goes his way and she goes
hers. What do you suppose is the end of such women?"
He conceded that it was a bad business.
"They end in two ways: Either they sink till the lu-
natic asylums and the workhouses are full of them, and
cause Mr. Wilcox to write letters to the papers complain-
ing of our national degeneracy, or else they entrap a boy
into marriage before it is too late. She I can't blame
her.
"But this isn't all," she continued after a long pause,
during which the landlady served them with coffee. "I
come now to the business that took us to Oniton. We
264
went all three. Acting on Mr. Wilcox's advice, the man
throws up a secure situation and takes an insecure one,
from which he is dismissed. There are certain excuses,
but in the main Mr. Wilcox is to blame, as Meg herself
admitted. It is only common justice that he should em-
ploy the man himself. But he meets the woman, and,
like the cur that he is, he refuses, and tries to get rid of
them. He makes Meg write. Two notes came from her
late that evening one for me, one for Leonard, dis-
missing him with barely a reason. I couldn't under-
stand. Then it comes out that Mrs. Bast had spoken to
Mr. Wilcox on the lawn while we left her to get rooms,
and was still speaking about him when Leonard came
back to her. This Leonard knew all along. He thought it
natural he should be ruined twice. Natural! Could you
have contained yourself?"
"It is certainly a very bad business," said Tibby.
His reply seemed to calm his sister. "I was afraid that
I saw it out of proportion. But you are right outside it,
and you must know. In a day or two or perhaps a
week take whatever steps you think fit. I leave it in
your hands."
She concluded her charge.
"The facts as they touch Meg are all before you," she
added; and Tibby sighed and felt it rather hard that,
because of his open mind, he should be empanelled to
serve as a juror. He had never been interested in human
beings, for which one must blame him, but he had had
rather too much of them at Wickham Place. Just as some
people cease to attend when books are mentioned, so
Tibby's attention wandered when "personal relations"
came under discussion. Ought Margaret to know what
Helen knew the Basts to know? Similar questions had
vexed him from infancy, and at Oxford he had learned
to say that the importance of human beings has been
vastly overrated by specialists. The epigram, with its
265
faint whiff of the eighties, meant nothing. But he might
have let it off now if his sister had not been ceaselessly
beautiful.
"You see, Helen have a cigarette I don't see what
I'm to do."
"Then there's nothing to do done. I dare say you are
right. Let them marry. There remains the question of
compensation."
"Do you want me to adjudicate that too? Had you
not better consult an expert?"
"This part is in confidence," said Helen. "It has
nothing to do with Meg, and do not mention it to her.
The compensation I do not see who is to pay it if I
don't, and I have already decided on the minimum sum.
As soon as possible I am placing it to your account, and
when I am in Germany you will pay it over for me. I
shall never forget your kindness, Tibbikins, if you do
this."
"What is the sum?"
"Five thousand."
"Good God alive!" said Tibby, and went crimson.
"Now, what is the good of driblets? To go through
life having done one thing to have raised one person
from the abyss: not these puny gifts of shillings and
blankets making the grey more grey. No doubt people
will think me extraordinary."
"I don't care a damn what people think!" cried he,
heated to unusual manliness of diction. "But it's half
what you have."
"Not nearly half." She spread out her hands over her
soiled skirt. "I have far too much, and we settled at
Chelsea last spring that three hundred a year is neces-
sary to set a man on his feet. What I give will bring in a
hundred and fifty between two. It isn't enough."
He could not recover. He was not angry or even
shocked, and he saw that Helen would still have plenty
to live on. But it amazed him to think what haycocks
266
people can make of their lives. His delicate intonations
would not work, and he could only blurt out that the
five thousand pounds would mean a great deal of bother
for him personally.
"I didn't expect you to understand me."
"I? I understand nobody."
"But you'll do it?"
"Apparently."
"I leave you two commissions, then. The first con-
cerns Mr. Wilcox, and you are to use your discretion.
The second concerns the money, and is to be mentioned
to no one, and carried out literally. You will send a hun-
dred pounds on account tomorrow."
He walked with her to the station, passing through
those streets whose serried beauty never bewildered him
and never fatigued. The lovely creature raised domes
and spires into the cloudless blue, and only the ganglion
of vulgarity round Carfax showed how evanescent was
the phantom, how faint its claim to represent England.
Helen, rehearsing her commission, noticed nothing: the
Basts were in her brain, and she retold the crisis in a
meditative way, which might have made other men cu-
rious. She was seeing whether it would hold. He asked
her once why she had taken the Basts right into the heart
of Evie's wedding. She stopped like a frightened animal
and said: "Does that seem to you so odd?" Her eyes,
the hand laid on the mouth, quite haunted him, until
they were absorbed into the figure of St. Mary the Vir-
gin, before whom he paused for a moment on the walk
home.
It is convenient to follow him in the discharge of his
duties. Margaret summoned him the next day. She was
terrified at Helen's flight, and he had to say that she
had called in at Oxford. Then she said: "Did she seem
worried at any rumour about Henry?" He answered
"Yes." "I knew it was that!" she exclaimed. "I'll write
to her/' Tibby was relieved.
267
He then sent the cheque to the address that Helen
gave him, and stated that later on he was instructed to
forward five thousand pounds. An answer came back,
very civil and quiet in tone such an answer as Tibby
himself would have given. The cheque was returned,
the legacy refused, the writer being in no need of money.
Tibby forwarded this to Helen, adding in the fulness of
his heart that Leonard Bast seemed somewhat a monu-
mental person after all. Helen's reply was frantic. He
was to take no notice. He was to go down at once and
say that she commanded acceptance. He went. A scurf
of books and china ornaments awaited him. The Basts
had just been evicted for not paying their rent, and had
wandered no one knew whither. Helen had begun bun-
gling with her money by this time, and had even sold
out her shares in the Nottingham and Derby Railway.
For some weeks she did nothing. Then she reinvested,
and, owing to the good advice of her stockbrokers, be-
came rather richer than she had been before.
CHAPTER
31
Houses have their own ways of dying, falling as vari-
ously as the generations of men, some with a tragic roar,
some quietly, but to an after-life in the city of ghosts,
while from othersand thus was the death of Wickham
Place the spirit slips before the body perishes. It had
decayed in the spring, disintegrating the girls more than
they knew, and causing either to accost unfamiliar
regions. By September it was a corpse, void of emotion,
and scarcely hallowed by the memories of thirty years
of happiness. Through its round-topped doorway passed
furniture, and pictures, and books, until the last room
was gutted and the last van had rumbled away. It stood
268
for a week or two longer, open-eyed, as if astonished at
its own emptiness. Then it fell. Navvies came, and split
it back into the grey. With their muscles and their beery
good temper, they were not the worst of undertakers
for a house which had always been human, and had not
mistaken culture for an end.
The furniture, with a few exceptions, went down into
Hertfordshire, Mr. Wilcox having most kindly offered
Howards End as a warehouse. Mr. Bryce had died
abroadan unsatisfactory affair and as there seemed
little guarantee that the rent would be paid regularly, he
cancelled the agreement, and resumed possession him-
self. Until he relet the house, the Schlegels were wel-
come to stack their furniture in the garage and lower
rooms. Margaret demurred, but Tibby accepted the offer
gladly; it saved him from coming to any decision about
the future. The plate and the more valuable pictures
found a safer home in London, but the bulk of the things
went country-ways, and were entrusted to the guardian-
ship of Miss Avery.
Shortly before the move, our hero and heroine were
married. They have weathered the storm, and may rea-
sonably expect peace. To have no illusions and yet to
love what stronger surety can a woman find? She had
seen her husband's past as well as his heart. She knew
her own heart with a thoroughness that commonplace
people believe impossible. The heart of Mrs. Wilcox was
alone hidden, and perhaps it is superstitious to specu-
late on the feelings of the dead. They were married qui-
etlyreally quietly, for as the day approached she
refused to go through another Oniton. Her brother gave
her away, her aunt, who was out of health, presided
over a few colourless refreshments. The Wilcoxes were
represented by Charles, who witnessed the marriage
settlement, and by Mr. Cahill. Paul did send a cable-
gram. In a few minutes, and without the aid of music,
the clergyman made them man and wife, and soon the
269 (
glass shade had fallen that cuts off married couples from
the world. She, a monogamist, regretted the cessation
of some of life's innocent odours; he, whose instincts
were polygamous, felt morally braced by the change,
and less liable to the temptations that had assailed him
in the past.
They spent their honeymoon near Innsbruck. Henry
knew of a reliable hotel there, and Margaret hoped for
a meeting with her sister. In this she was disappointed.
As they came south, Helen retreated over the Brenner,
and wrote an unsatisfactory postcard from the shores of
the Lake of Garda, saying that her plans were uncertain
and had better be ignored. Evidently she disliked meet-
ing Henry. Two months are surely enough to accustom
an outsider to a situation which a wife has accepted in
two days, and Margaret had again to regret her sister's
lack of self-control. In a long letter she pointed out the
need of charity in sexual matters: so little is known about
them; it is hard enough for those who are personally
touched to judge; then how futile must be the verdict of
Society. "I don't say there is no standard, for that would
destroy morality; only that there can be no standard un-
til our impulses are classified and better understood."
Helen thanked her for her kind letter rather a curious
reply. She moved south again, and spoke of wintering
in Naples.
Mr. Wilcox was not sorry that the meeting failed.
Helen left him time to grow skin over his wound. There
were still moments when it pained him. Had he only
known that Margaret was awaiting him Margaret, so
lively and intelligent, and yet so submissive he would
have kept himself worthier of her. Incapable of grouping
the past, he confused the episode of Jacky with another
episode that had taken place in the days of his bache-
lorhood. The two made one crop of wild oats, for which
he was heartily sorry, and he could not see that those
oats are of a darker stock which are rooted in another's
270
dishonour. Unchastity and infidelity were as confused
to him as to the Middle Ages, his only moral teacher.
Ruth (poor old Ruth!) did not enter into his calculations
at all, for poor old Ruth had never found him out.
His affection for his present wife grew steadily. Her
cleverness gave him no trouble, and, indeed, he liked to
see her reading poetry or something about social ques-
tions; it dintinguished her from the wives of other men.
He had only to call, and she clapped the book up and
was ready to do what he wished. Then they would ar-
gue so jollily, and once or twice she had him in quite a
tight corner, but as soon as he grew really serious, she
gave in. Man is for war, woman for the recreation of the
warrior, but he does not dislike it if she makes a show
of fight. She cannot win in a real battle, having no mus-
cles, only nerves. Nerves make her jump out of a mov-
ing motor-car, or refuse to be married fashionably. The
warrior may well allow her to triumph on such occa-
sions; they move not the imperishable plinth of things
that touch his peace.
Margaret had a bad attack of these nerves during the
honeymoon. He told her casually, as was his habit-
that Oniton Grange was let. She showed her annoy-
ance, and asked rather crossly why she had not been
consulted.
"I didn't want to bother you/ 7 he replied. "Besides,
I have only heard for certain this morning/'
"Where are we to live?" said Margaret, trying to
laugh. "I loved the place extraordinarily. Don't you be-
lieve in having a permanent home, Henry?"
He assured her that she misunderstood him. It is
home life that distinguishes us from the foreigner. But
he did not believe in a damp home.
"This is news. I never heard till this minute that On-
iton was damp."
"My dear girl!" he flung out his hand "have you
eyes? have you a skin? How could it be anything but
271
damp in such a situation? In the first place, the Grange
is on clay, and built where the castle moat must have
been; then there's that detestable little river, steaming
all night like a kettle. Feel the cellar walls; look up under
the eaves. Ask Sir James or anyone. Those Shropshire
valleys are notorious. The only possible place for a house
in Shropshire is on a hill; but, for my part, I think the
country is too far from London, and the scenery nothing
special."
Margaret could not resist saying: "Why did you go
there, then?"
"I because " He drew his head back and grew
rather angry. "Why have we come to the Tyrol, if it
comes to that? One might go on asking such questions
indefinitely."
One might; but he was only gaining time for a plau-
sible answer. Out it came, and he believed it as soon as
it was spoken.
"The truth is, I took Oniton on account of Evie. Don't
let this go any further."
"Certainly not."
"I shouldn't like her to know that she nearly let me
in for a very bad bargain. No sooner did I sign the agree-
ment than she got engaged. Poor little girl! She was so
keen on it all, and wouldn't even wait to make proper
inquiries about the shooting. Afraid it would get
snapped up just like all of your sex. Well, no harm's
done. She has had her country wedding, and I've got
rid of my house to some fellows who are starting a pre-
paratory school."
"Where shall we live, then, Henry? I should enjoy
living somewhere."
"I have not yet decided. What about Norfolk?"
Margaret was silent. Marriage had not saved her from
the sense of flux. London was but a foretaste of this
nomadic civilization which is altering human nature so
profoundly, and throws upon personal relations a stress
272
greater than they have ever borne before. Under cos-
mopolitanism, if it comes, we shall receive no help from
the earth. Trees and meadows and mountains will only
be a spectacle, and the binding force that they once ex-
ercised on character must be entrusted to Love alone.
May Love be equal to the task!
"It is now what?" continued Henry. "Nearly Octo-
ber. Let us camp for the winter at Ducie Street, and look
out for something in the spring."
"If possible, something permanent. I can't be as
young as I was, for these alterations don't suit me."
"But, my dear, which would you rather have alter-
ations or rheumatism?"
"I see your point," said Margaret, getting up. "If
Oniton is really damp, it is impossible, and must be in-
habited by little boys. Only, in the spring, let us look
before we leap. I will take warning by Evie, and not
hurry you. Remember that you have a free hand this
time. These endless moves must be bad for the furni-
ture, and are certainly expensive."
"What a practical little woman it is! What's it she's
reading? Theo theo how much?"
"Theosophy."
So Ducie Street was her first fate a pleasant enough
fate. The house, being only a little larger than Wickham
Place, trained her for the immense establishment that
was promised in the spring. They were frequently away,
but at home life ran fairly regularly. In the morning
Henry went to the business, and his sandwich a relic
this of some prehistoric craving was always cut by her
own hand. He did not rely upon the sandwich for lunch,
but liked to have it by him in case he grew hungry at
eleven. When he had gone, there was the house to look
after, and the servants to humanize, and several kettles
of Helen's to keep on the boil. Her conscience pricked
her a little about the Basts; she was not sorry to have
lost sight of them. No doubt Leonard was worth help-
27$
ing, but being Henry's wife, she preferred to help some-
one else. As for theatres and discussion societies, they
attracted her less and less. She began to "miss" new
movements, and to spend her spare time re-reading or
thinking, rather to the concern of her Chelsea friends.
They attributed the change to her marriage, and perhaps
some deep instinct did warn her not to travel further
from her husband than was inevitable. Yet the main
cause lay deeper still; she had outgrown stimulants, and
was passing from words to things. It was doubtless a
pity not to keep up with Wedekind or John, but some
closing of the gates is inevitable after thirty, if the mind
itself is to become a creative power.
CHAPTER
32
She was looking at plans one day in the following
spring they had finally decided to go down into Sussex
and build when Mrs. Charles Wilcox was announced.
"Have you heard the news?" Dolly cried, as soon as
she entered the room. "Charles is so ang I mean he is
sure you know about it, or rather, that you don't know."
"Why, Dolly!" said Margaret, placidly kissing her.
"Here's a surprise! How are the boys and the baby?"
Boys and the baby were well, and in describing a great
row that there had been at Hilton Tennis Club, Dolly
forgot her news. The wrong people had tried to get in.
The rector, as representing the older inhabitants, had
said Charles had said the tax-collector had said-
Charles had regretted not saying and she closed the
description with: "But lucky you, with four courts of
your own at Midhurst."
"It will be very jolly," replied Margaret.
274
"Are those the plans? Does it matter me seeing
them?"
"Of course not."
"Charles has never seen the plans."
"They have only just arrived. Here is the ground
floor no, that's rather difficult. Try the elevation. We
are to have a good many gables and a picturesque sky-
line."
"What makes it smell so funny?" said Dolly, after a
moment's inspection. She was incapable of understand-
ing plans or maps.
"I suppose the paper."
"And which way up is it?"
"Just the ordinary way up. That's the sky-line, and
the part that smells strongest is the sky."
"Well, ask me another. Margaret oh what was I
going to say? How's Helen?"
"Quite well."
"Is she never coming back to England? Everyone
thinks it's awfully odd she doesn't."
"So it is," said Margaret, trying to conceal her vexa-
tion. She was getting rather sore on this point. "Helen
is odd, awfully. She has now been away eight months."
"But hasn't she any address?"
"A poste restante somewhere in Bavaria is her ad-
dress. Do write her a line. I will look it up for you."
"No, don't bother. That's eight months she has been
away, surely?"
"Exactly. She left just after Evie's wedding. It would
be eight months."
"Just when baby was born, then?"
"Just so."
Dolly sighed, and stared enviously round the draw-
ing-room. She was beginning to lose her brightness and
good looks. The Charleses were not well off, for Mr.
Wilcox, having brought up his children with expensive
275
tastes, believed in letting them shift for themselves. Af-
ter all, he had not treated them generously. Yet another
baby was expected, she told Margaret, and they would
have to give up the motor. Margaret sympathized, but
in a formal fashion, and Dolly little imagined that the
step-mother was urging Mr. Wilcox to make them a more
liberal allowance. She sighed again, and at last the par-
ticular grievance was remembered. "Oh yes/' she cried,
"that is it: Miss Avery has been unpacking your packing
cases."
"Why has she done that? How unnecessary!"
"Ask another. I suppose you ordered her to."
"I gave no such orders. Perhaps she was airing the
things. She did undertake to light an occasional fire."
"It was far more than an air," said Dolly solemnly.
"The floor sounds covered with books. Charles sent me
to know what is to be done, for he feels certain you
don't know."
"Books!" cried Margaret, moved by the holy word.
"Dolly, are you serious? Has she been touching our
books?"
"Hasn't she, though! What used to be the hall's full
of them. Charles thought for certain you knew of it."
"I am very much obliged to you, Dolly. What can
have come over Miss Avery? I must go down about it at
once. Some of the books are my brother's, and are quite
valuable. She had no right to open any of the cases."
"I say she's dotty. She was the one that never got
married, you know. Oh, I say, perhaps she thinks your
books are wedding-presents to herself. Old maids are
taken that way sometimes. Miss Avery hates us all like
poison ever since her frightful dust-up with Evie."
"I hadn't heard of that," said Margaret. A visit from
Dolly had its compensations.
"Didn't you know she gave Evie a present last Au-
gust, and Evie returned it, and then oh, goloshes! You
never read such a letter as Miss Avery wrote."
276
"But it was wrong of Evie to return it. It wasn't like
her to do such a heartless thing."
"But the present was so expensive."
"Why does that make any difference, Dolly?"
"Still, when it costs over five poundsI didn't see it,
but it was a lovely enamel pendant from a Bond Street
shop. You can't very well accept that kind of thing from
a farm woman. Now, can you?"
"You accepted a present from Miss Avery when you
were married."
"Oh, mine was old earthenware stuff not worth a
halfpenny. Evie's was quite different. You'd have to ask
anyone to the wedding who gave you a pendant like
that. Uncle Percy and Albert and Father and Charles all
said it was quite impossible, and when four men agree,
what is a girl to do? Evie didn't want to upset the old
thing, so thought a sort of joking letter best, and re-
turned the pendant straight to the shop to save Miss
Avery trouble."
"But Miss Avery said"
Dolly's eyes grew round. "It was a perfectly awful
letter. Charles said it was the letter of a madman. In the
end she had the pendant back again from the shop and
threw it into the duckpond."
"Did she give any reasons?"
"We think she meant to be invited to Oniton, and so
climb into society."
"She's rather old for that," said Margaret pensively.
"May not she have given the present to Evie in remem-
brance of her mother?"
"That's a notion. Give everyone their due, eh? Well,
I suppose I ought to be toddling. Come along, Mr.
Muff you want a new coat, but I don't know who'll
give it you, I'm sure"; and addressing her apparel with
mournful humour, Dolly moved from the room.
Margaret followed her to ask whether Henry knew
about Miss Avery's rudeness.
277
"Oh yes/'
"I wonder, then, why he let me ask her to look after
the house."
"But she's only a farm woman/' said Dolly, and her
explanation proved correct. Henry only censured the
lower classes when it suited him. He bore with Miss
Avery as with Crane because he could get good value
out of them. "I have patience with a man who knows
his job/' he would say, really having patience with the
job, and not the man. Paradoxical as it may sound, he
had something of the artist about him; he would pass
over an insult to his daughter sooner than lose a good
charwoman for his wife.
Margaret judged it better to settle the little trouble
herself. Parties were evidently ruffled. With Henry's
permission, she wrote a pleasant note to Miss Avery,
asking her to leave the cases untouched. Then, at the
first convenient opportunity, she went down herself, in-
tending to repack her belongings and store them prop-
erly in the local warehouse: the plan had been
amateurish and a failure. Tibby promised to accompany
her, but at the last moment begged to be excused. So,
for the second time in her life, she entered the house
alone.
CHAPTER
33
The day of her visit was exquisite, and the last of un-
clouded happiness that she was to have for many
months. Her anxiety about Helen's extraordinary ab-
sence was still dormant, and as for a possible brush with
Miss Avery that only gave zest to the expedition. She
had also eluded Dolly's invitation to luncheon. Walking
straight up from the station, she crossed the village
278
green and entered the long chestnut avenue that con-
nects it with the church. The church itself stood in the
village once. But it there attracted so many worshippers
that the devil, in a pet, snatched it from its foundations
and poised it on an inconvenient knoll three quarters of
a mile away. If this story is true, the chestnut avenue
must have been planted by the angels. No more tempt-
ing approach could be imagined for the lukewarm Chris-
tian, and if he still finds the walk too long, the devil is
defeated all the same, Science having built Holy Trinity,
a Chapel of Ease, near the Charleses', and roofed it with
tin.
Up the avenue Margaret strolled slowly, stopping to
watch the sky that gleamed through the upper branches
of the chestnuts, or to finger the little horseshoes on the
lower branches. Why has not England a great mythol-
ogy? Our folklore has never advanced beyond dainti-
ness, and the greater melodies about our country-side
have all issued through the pipes of Greece. Deep and
true as the native imagination can be, it seems to have
failed here. It has stopped with the witches and the fair-
ies. It cannot vivify one fraction of a summer field, or
give names to half a dozen stars. England still waits for
the supreme moment of her literature for the great poet
who shall voice her, or, better still, for the thousand
little poets whose voices shall pass into our common
talk.
At the church the scenery changed. The chestnut av-
enue opened into a road, smooth but narrow, which led
into the untouched country. She followed it for over a
mile. Its little hesitations pleased her. Having no urgent
destiny, it strolled downhill or up as it wished, taking
no trouble about the gradients, nor about the view,
which nevertheless expanded. The great estates that
throttle the south of Hertfordshire were less obtrusive
here, and the appearance of the land was neither aris-
tocratic nor suburban. To define it was difficult, but Mar-
279
garet knew what it was not: it was not snobbish. Though
its contours were slight, there was a touch of freedom
in their sweep to which Surrey will never attain, and
the distant brow of the Chilterns towered like a moun-
tain. "Left to itself," was Margaret's opinion, "this
county would vote Liberal." The comradeship, not pas-
sionate, that is our highest gift as a nation, was prom-
ised by it, as by the low brick farm where she called for
the key.
But the inside of the farm was disappointing. A most
finished young person received her. "Yes, Mrs. Wil-
cox: no, Mrs. Wilcox; oh yes, Mrs. Wilcox, Auntie re-
ceived your letter quite duly. Auntie has gone up to your
little place at the present moment. Shall I send the ser-
vant to direct you?" Followed by: "Of course, Auntie
does not generally look after your place; she only does
it to oblige a neighbour as something exceptional. It
gives her something to do. She spends quite a lot of
her time there. My husband says to me sometimes:
'Where's Auntie?' I say: 'Need you ask? She's at Ho-
wards End/ Yes, Mrs. Wilcox. Mrs. Wilcox, could I pre-
vail upon you to accept a piece of cake? Not if I cut it
for you?"
Margaret refused the cake, but unfortunately this ac-
quired her gentility in the eyes of Miss Avery's niece.
"I cannot let you go on alone. Now don't. You really
mustn't. I will direct you myself if it comes to that. I
must get my hat. Now" roguishly "Mrs. Wilcox,
don't you move while I'm gone."
Stunned, Margaret did not move from the best par-
lour, over which the touch of art nouveau had fallen.
But the other rooms looked in keeping, though they
conveyed the peculiar sadness of a rural interior. Here
had lived an elder race, to which we look back with dis-
quietude. The country which we visit at week-ends was
really a home to it, and the graver sides of life, the
deaths, the partings, the yearnings for love, have their
280
deepest expression in the heart of the fields. All was not
sadness. The sun was shining without. The thrush sang
his two syllables on the budding guelder-rose. Some
children were playing uproariously in heaps of golden
straw. It was the presence of sadness at all that sur-
prised Margaret, and ended by giving her a feeling of
completeness. In these English farms, if anywhere, one
might see life steadily and see it whole, group in one
vision its transitoriness and its eternal youth, connect
connect without bitterness until all men are brothers.
But her thoughts were interrupted by the return of Miss
Avery's niece, and were so tranquillizing that she suf-
fered the interruption gladly.
It was quicker to go out by the back door, and, after
due explanations, they went out by it. The niece was
now mortified by innumerable chickens, who rushed up
to her feet for food, and by a shameless and maternal
sow. She did not know what animals were coming to.
But her gentility withered at the touch of the sweet air.
The wind was rising, scattering the straw and ruffling
the tails of the ducks as they floated in families over
Evie's pendant. One of those delicious gales of spring,
in which leaves still in bud seem to rustle, swept over
the land and then fell silent. "Georgie/' sang the
thrush. "Cuckoo/' came furtively from the cliff of pine-
trees. ''Georgie, pretty Georgie/ 7 and the other birds
joined in with nonsense. The hedge was a half-painted
picture which would be finished in a few days. Celan-
dines grew on its banks, lords and ladies and primroses
in the defended hollows; the wild rose-bushes, still
bearing their withered hips, showed also the promise of
blossom. Spring had come, dad in no classical garb, yet
fairer than all springs; fairer even than she who walks
through the myrtles of Tuscany with the graces before
her and the zephyr behind.
The two women walked up the lane full of outward
civility. But Margaret was thinking how difficult it was
2&L
to be earnest about furniture on such a day, and the
niece was thinking about hats. Thus engaged, they
reached Howards End. Petulant cries of "Auntie!" sev-
ered the air. There was no reply, and the front door was
locked.
"Are you sure that Miss Avery is up here?" asked
Margaret.
"Oh yes, Mrs. Wilcox, quite sure. She is here daily."
Margaret tried to look in through the dining-room
window, but the curtain inside was drawn tightly. So
with the drawing-room and the hall. The appearance of
these curtains was familiar, yet she did not remember
them being there on her other visit: her impression was
that Mr. Bryce had taken everything away. They tried
the back. Here again they received no answer, and could
see nothing; the kitchen window was fitted with a blind,
while the pantry and scullery had pieces of wood
propped up against them, which looked ominously like
the lids of packing-cases. Margaret thought of her books,
and she lifted up her voice also. At the first cry she suc-
ceeded.
"Well, well!" replied someone inside the house. "If
it isn't Mrs. Wilcox come at last!"
"Have you got the key, Auntie?"
"Madge, go away," said Miss Avery, still invisible.
"Auntie, it's Mrs. Wilcox"
Margaret supported her. "Your niece and I have come
together"
"Madge, go away. This is no moment for your hat."
The poor woman went red. "Auntie gets more eccen-
tric lately," she said nervously.
"Miss Avery!" called Margaret. "I have come about
the furniture. Could you kindly let me in?"
"Yes, Mrs. Wilcox," said the voice, "of course." But
after that came silence. They called again without re-
sponse. They walked round the house disconsolately.
"I hope Miss Avery is not ill," hazarded Margaret.
282
"Well, if you'll excuse me/' said Madge, "perhaps I
ought to be leaving you now. The servants need seeing
to at the farm. Auntie is so odd at times/' Gathering up
her elegancies, she retired defeated, and, as if her de-
parture had loosed a spring, the front door opened at
once.
Miss Avery said: "Well, come right in, Mrs. Wilcox!"
quite pleasantly and calmly.
"Thank you so much," began Margaret, but broke off
at the sight of an umbrella-stand. It was her own.
"Come right into the hall first," said Miss Avery. She
drew the curtain, and Margaret uttered a cry of despair.
For an appalling thing had happened. The hall was fit-
ted up with the contents of the library from Wickham
Place. The carpet had been laid, the big work-table
drawn up near the window; the bookcases filled the wall
opposite the fireplace, and her father's sword this is
what bewildered her particularly had been drawn from
its scabbard and hung naked amongst the sober vol-
umes. Miss Avery must have worked for days.
"I'm afraid this isn't what we meant," she began.
"Mr. Wilcox and I never intended the cases to be
touched. For instance, these books are my brother's. We
are storing them for him and for my sister, who is
abroad. When you kindly undertook to look after things,
we never expected you to do so much."
"The house has been empty long enough," said the
old woman.
Margaret refused to argue. "I dare say we didn't ex-
plain," she said civilly. "It has been a mistake, and very
likely our mistake."
"Mrs. Wilcox, it has been mistake upon mistake for
fifty years. The house is Mrs. Wilcox' s, and she would
not desire it to stand empty any longer."
To help the poor decaying brain, Margaret said:
"Yes, Mrs. Wilcox's house, the mother of Mr.
Charles."
285
"Mistake upon mistake," said Miss Avery. "Mistake
upon mistake."
"Well, I don't know," said Margaret, sitting down in
one of her own chairs. "I really don't know what's to
be done." She could not help laughing.
The other said: "Yes, it should be a merry house
enough."
"I don't know I dare say. Well, thank you very
much, Miss Avery. Yes, that's all right. Delightful."
"There is still the parlour." She went through the
door opposite and drew a curtain. Light flooded the
drawing-room and the drawing-room furniture from
Wickham Place. "And the dining-room." More curtains
were drawn, more windows were flung open to the
spring. "Then through here" Miss Avery continued
passing and repassing through the hall. Her voice was
lost, but Margaret heard her pulling up the kitchen
blind. "I've not finished here yet," she announced, re-
turning. "There's still a deal to do. The farm lads will
carry your great wardrobes upstairs, for there is no need
to go into expense at Hilton."
"It is all a mistake," repeated Margaret, feeling that
she must put her foot down. "A misunderstanding. Mr.
Wilcox and I are not going to live at Howards End."
"Oh, indeed. On account of his hay fever?"
"We have settled to build a new home for ourselves
in Sussex, and part of this furniture my part will go
down there presently." She looked at Miss Avery in-
tently, trying to understand the kink in her brain. Here
was no maundering old woman. Her wrinkles were
shrewd and humorous. She looked capable of scathing
wit and also of high but unostentatious nobility.
"You think that you won't come back to live here,
Mrs. Wilcox, but you will."
"That remains to be seen," said Margaret, smiling.
"We have no intention of doing so for the present. We
happen to need a much larger house. Circumstances
284
oblige us to give big parties. Of course, some day one
never knows, does one?"
Miss Avery retorted: "Some day! Tchal tcha! Don't
talk about some day. You are living here now."
"Am I?"
"You are living here, and have been for the last ten
minutes, if you ask me."
It was a senseless remark, but with a queer feeling of
disloyalty Margaret rose, from her chair. She felt that
Henry had been obscurely censured. They went into the
dining-room, where the sunlight poured in upon her
mother's chiffonier, and upstairs, where many an old
god peeped from a new niche. The furniture fitted ex-
traordinarily well. In the central room over the hall, the
room that Helen had slept in four years ago Miss Av-
ery had placed Tibby's old bassinette.
"The nursery," she said.
Margaret turned away without speaking.
At last everything was seen. The kitchen and lobby
were still stacked with furniture and straw, but, as far
as she could make out, nothing had been broken or
scratched. A pathetic display of ingenuity! Then they
took a friendly stroll in the garden. It had gone wild
since her last visit. The gravel sweep was weedy, and
grass had sprung up at the very jaws of the garage. And
Evie's rockery was only bumps. Perhaps Evie was re-
sponsible for Miss Avery's oddness. But Margaret sus-
pected that the cause lay deeper, and that the girl's silly
letter had but loosed the irritation of years.
"It's a beautiful meadow," she remarked. It was one
of those open-air drawing-rooms that have been formed,
hundreds of years ago, out of the smaller fields. So the
boundary hedge zigzagged down the hill at right angles,
and at the bottom there was a little green annex a sort
of powder-doset for the cows.
"Yes, the maidy's well enough," said Miss Avery,
"for those, that is, who don't suffer from sneezing."
285
And she cackled maliciously. "I've seen Charlie Wilcox
go out to my lads in hay time oh, they ought to do
this they mustn't do that he'd learn them to be lads.
And just then the tickling took him. He has it from his
father, with other things. There's not one Wilcox that
can stand up against a field in June I laughed fit to
burst while he was courting Ruth."
"My brother gets hay fever too," said Margaret.
"This house lies too much on the land for them. Nat-
urally, they were glad enough to slip in at first. But Wil-
coxes are better than nothing, as I see you've found."
Margaret laughed.
"They keep a place going, don't they? Yes, it is just
that."
"They keep England going, it is my opinion."
But Miss Avery upset her by replying: "Ay, they
breed like rabbits. Well, well, it's a funny world. But He
who made it knows what He wants in it, I suppose. If
Mrs. Charlie is expecting her fourth, it isn't for us to
repine."
"They breed and they also work," said Margaret,
conscious of some invitation to disloyalty, which was
echoed by the very breeze and by the songs of the birds.
"It certainly is a funny world, but so long as men like
my husband and his sons govern it, I think it'll never
be a bad one never really bad."
"No, better'n nothing," said Miss Avery, and turned
to the wych-elm.
On their way back to the farm she spoke of her old
friend much more clearly than before. In the house Mar-
garet had wondered whether she quite distinguished the
first wife from the second. Now she said: "I never saw
much of Ruth after her grandmother died, but we stayed
civil. It was a very civil family. Old Mrs. Howard never
spoke against anybody, nor let anyone be turned away
without food. Then it was never 'Trespassers will be
266
prosecuted' in their land, but would people please not
come in. Mrs. Howard was never created to run a farm."
"Had they no men to help them?" Margaret asked.
Miss Avery replied: "Things went on until there were
no men."
"Until Mr. Wilcox came along/' corrected Margaret,
anxious that her husband should receive his due.
"I suppose so; but Ruth should have married a no
disrespect to you to say this, for I take it you were in-
tended to get Wilcox anyway, whether she got him first
or no."
"Whom should she have married?"
"A soldier!" exclaimed the old woman. "Some real
soldier."
Margaret was silent. It was a criticism of Henry's
character far more trenchant than any of her own. She
felt dissatisfied.
"But that's all over," she went on. "A better time is
coming now, though you've kept me long enough wait-
ing. In a couple of weeks I'll see your lights shining
through the hedge of an evening. Have you ordered in
coals?"
"We are not coming," said Margaret firmly. She re-
spected Miss Avery too much to humour her, "No. Not
coming. Never coming. It has all been a mistake. The
furniture must be repacked at once, and I am very sorry,
but I am making other arrangements, and must ask you
to give me the keys."
"Certainly, Mrs. Wilcox," said Miss Avery, and re-
signed her duties with a smile.
Relieved at this conclusion, and having sent her com-
pliments to Madge, Margaret walked back to the station.
She had intended to go to the furniture warehouse and
give directions for removal, but the muddle had turned
out more extensive than she expected, so she decided to
consult Henry. It was as well that she did this. He was
287
strongly against employing the local man whom he had
previously recommended, and advised her to store in
London after all.
But before this could be done, an unexpected trouble
fell upon her.
CHAPTER
34
It was not unexpected entirely. Aunt Juley's health had
been bad all the winter. She had had a long series of
colds and coughs, and had been too busy to get rid of
them. She had scarcely promised her niece "to really
take my tiresome chest in hand," when she caught a
chill and developed acute pneumonia. Margaret and
Tibby went down to Swanage. Helen was telegraphed
for, and that spring party that after all gathered in that
hospitable house had all the pathos of fair memories.
On a perfect day, when the sky seemed blue porcelain,
and the waves of the discreet little bay beat gentlest of
tattoos upon the sand, Margaret hurried up through the
rhododendrons, confronted again by the senselessness
of Death. One death may explain itself, but it throws no
light upon another: the groping inquiry must begin
anew. Preachers or scientists may generalize, but we
know that no generality is possible about those whom
we love; not one heaven awaits them, not even one
oblivion. Aunt Juley, incapable of tragedy, slipped out
of life with odd little laughs and apologies for having
stopped in it so long. She was very weak; she could not
rise to the occasion, or realize the great mystery which
all agree must await her; it only seemed to her that she
was quite done up more done up than ever before; that
she saw and heard and felt less every moment; and that,
unless something changed, she would soon feel noth-
288
ing. Her spare strength she devoted to plans: could not
Margaret take some steamer expeditions? were mackerel
cooked as Tibby liked them? She worried herself about
Helen's absence, and also that she could be the cause of
Helen's return. The nurses seemed to think such inter-
ests quite natural, and perhaps hers was an average ap-
proach to the Great Gate. But Margaret saw Death
stripped of any false romance; whatever the idea of
Death may contain, the process can be trivial and hid-
eous.
"Important Margaret dear, take the Lulworth when
Helen comes."
"Helen won't be able to stop, Aunt Juley. She has
telegraphed that she can only get away just to see you.
She must go back to Germany as soon as you are well."
"How very odd of Helen! Mr. Wilcox "
"Yes, dear?"
"Can he spare you?"
Henry wished her to come, and had been very kind.
Yet again Margaret said so.
Mrs. Munt did not die. Quite outside her will, a more
dignified power took hold of her and checked her on
the downward slope. She returned, without emotion,
as fidgety as ever. On the fourth day she was out of
danger.
/'Margaret important," it went on: "I should like
you to have some companion to take walks with. Do try
Miss Conder."
"I have been a little walk with Miss Conder."
"But she is not really interesting. If only you had
Helen."
"I have Tibby, Aunt Juley/'
"No, but he has to do bis Chinese. Some real com-
panion is what you need. Really, Helen is odd."
"Helen is odd, very," agreed Margaret.
"Not content with going abroad, why does she want
to go back there at once?"
289
"No doubt she will change her mind when she sees
us. She has not the least balance."
That was the stock criticism about Helen, but Mar-
garet's voice trembled as she made it. By now she was
deeply pained at her sister's behavior. It may be unbal-
anced to fly out of England, but to stop away eight
months argues that the heart is awry as well as the head.
A sick-bed could recall Helen, but she was deaf to more
human calls; after a glimpse at her aunt, she would re-
tire into her nebulous life behind some poste restante.
She scarcely existed; her letters had become dull and
infrequent; she had no wants and no curiosity. And it
was all put down to poor Henry's account! Henry, long
pardoned by his wife, was still too infamous to be
greeted by his sister-in-law. It was morbid, and, to her
alarm, Margaret fancied that she could trace the growth
of morbidity back in Helen's life for nearly four years.
The flight from Oniton; the unbalanced patronage of the
Basts; the explosion of grief up on the Downs all con-
nected with Paul, an insignificant boy whose lips had
kissed hers for a fraction of time. Margaret and Mrs.
Wilcox had feared that they might kiss again. Foolishly:
the real danger was reaction. Reaction against the Wil-
coxes had eaten into her life until she was scarcely sane.
At twenty-five she had an ide fixe. What hope was there
for her as an old woman?
The more Margaret thought about it, the more
alarmed she became. For many months she had put the
subject away, but it was too big to be slighted now.
There was almost a taint of madness. Were all Helen's
actions to be governed by a tiny mishap such as may
happen to any young man or woman? Can human na-
ture be constructed on lines so insignificant? The blun-
dering little encounter at Howards End was vital. It
propagated itself where graver intercourse lay barren; it
was stronger than sisterly intimacy, stronger than rea-
290
son or books. In one of her moods Helen had confessed
that she still "enjoyed" it in a certain sense. Paul had
faded, but the magic of his caress endured. And where
there is enjoyment of the past there may also be reac-
tionpropagation at both ends.
Well, it is odd and sad that our minds should be such
seed-beds, and we without power to choose the seed.
But man is an odd, sad creature as yet, intent on pilfer-
ing the earth, and heedless of the growths within him-
self. He cannot be bored about psychology. He leaves it
to the specialist, which is as if he should leave his dinner
to be eaten by a steam-engine. He cannot be bothered
to digest his own soul. Margaret and Helen have been
more patient, and it is suggested that Margaret has suc-
ceeded so far as success is yet possible. She does un-
derstand herself, she has some rudimentary control over
her own growth. Whether Helen has succeeded, one
cannot say.
The day that Mrs. Munt rallied, Helen's letter arrived.
She had posted it at Munich, and would be in London
herself on the morrow. It was a disquieting letter,
though the opening was affectionate and sane.
Dearest Meg,
Give Helen's love to Auntjuley. Tell her that I love,
and have loved, her ever since I can remember. I shall be
in London Thursday.
My address will be care of the bankers. I have not
yet settled on a hotel, so write or wire to me there and
give me detailed news. If Aunt Juley is much better, or
if, for a terrible reason, it would be no good my coming
down to Swanage, you must not think it odd if I do not
come. I have all sorts of plans in my head. I am living
abroad at present, and want to get back as quickly as
possible. Will you please tell me where our furniture is.
I should like to take out one or two books; the rest are
for you.
291
Forgive me, dearest Meg. This must read like rather
a tiresome letter, but all letters are from your loving
Helen
It was a tiresome letter, for it tempted Margaret to tell
a lie. If she wrote that Aunt Juley was still in danger,
her sister would come. Unhealthiness is contagious. We
cannot be in contact with those who are in a morbid
state without ourselves deteriorating. To "act for the
best" might do Helen good, but would do herself harm,
and, at the risk of disaster, she kept her colours flying a
little longer. She replied that their aunt was much bet-
ter, and awaited developments.
Tibby approved of her reply. Mellowing rapidly, he
was a pleasanter companion than before. Oxford had
done much for him. He had lost his peevishness, and
could hide his indifference to people and his interest in
food. But he had not grown more human. The years
between eighteen and twenty-two, so magical for most,
were leading him gently from boyhood to middle age.
He had never known young-manliness, that quality
which warms the heart till death, and gives Mr. Wilcox
an imperishable charm. He was frigid, through no fault
of his own, and without cruelty. He thought Helen
wrong and Margaret right, but the family trouble was
for him what a scene behind footlights is for most peo-
ple. He had only one suggestion to make, and that was
characteristic.
"Why don't you tell Mr. Wilcox?"
"About Helen?"
"Perhaps he has come across that sort of thing."
"He would do all he could, but-"
"Oh, you know best. But he is practical."
It was the student's belief in experts. Margaret de-
murred for one or two reasons. Presently Helen's an-
swer came. She sent a telegram requesting the address
of the furniture, as she would now return at once. Mar-
292
garet replied: "Certainly not; meet me at the bankers at
four." She and Tibby went up to London. Helen was
not at the bankers, and they were refused her address.
Helen had passed into chaos.
Margaret put her arm round her brother. He was all
that she had left and never had he seemed more unsub-
stantial.
"Tibby love, what next?"
He replied: "It is extraordinary."
"Dear, your judgment's often clearer than mine. Have
you any notion what's at the back?"
"None, unless it's something mental."
"Oh that!" said Margaret. "Quite impossible." But
the suggestion had been uttered, and in a few minutes
she took it up herself. Nothing else explained. And Lon-
don agreed with Tibby. The mask fell off the city, and
she saw it for what it really is a caricature of infinity.
The familiar barriers, the streets along which she moved,
the houses between which she had made her little jour-
neys for so many years, became negligible suddenly.
Helen seemed one with grimy trees and the traffic and
the slowly flowing slabs of mud. She had accomplished
a hideous act of renunciation and returned to the One.
Margaret's own faith held firm. She knew the human
soul will be merged, if it be merged at all, with the stars
and the sea. Yet she felt that her sister had been going
amiss for many years. It was symbolic the catastrophe
should come now, on a London afternoon, while rain
fell slowly.
Henry was the only hope. Henry was definite. He
might know of some paths in the chaos that were hid-
den from them, and she determined to take Tibby's ad-
vice and lay the whole matter in his hands. They must
call at his office. He could not well make it worse. She
went for a few moments into St. Paul's, whose dome
stands out of the welter so bravely, as if preaching the
gospel of form. But within, St. Paul's is as its surround-
293
ingsechoes and whispers, inaudible songs, invisible
mosaics, wet footmarks crossing and recrossing the floor.
Si monumentum requiris, circumspice: it points us back
to London. There was no hope of Helen here.
Henry was unsatisfactory at first. That she had ex-
pected. He was overjoyed to see her back from Swan-
age, and slow to admit the growth of a new trouble.
When they told him of their search, he only chaffed
Tibby and the Schlegels generally, and declared that it
was "just like Helen" to lead her relatives a dance.
"That is what we all say," replied Margaret. "But
why should it be just like Helen? Why should she be
allowed to be so queer, and to grow queerer?"
"Don't ask me. I'm a plain man of business. I live
and let live. My advice to you both is, don't worry. Mar-
garet, you've got black marks again under your eyes.
You know that's strictly forbidden. First your auntthen
your sister. No, we aren't going to have it. Are we,
Theobald?" He rang the bell. "I'll give you some tea,
and then you go straight to Ducie Street. I can't have
my girl looking as old as her husband."
"All the same, you have not quite seen our point,"
said Tibby.
Mr. Wilcox, who was in good spirits, retorted: "I
don't suppose I ever shall." He leant back, laughing at
the gifted but ridiculous family, while the fire flickered
over the map of Africa. Margaret motioned to her
brother to go on. Rather diffident, he obeyed her.
"Margaret's point is this," he said. "Our sister may
be mad."
Charles, who was working in the inner room, looked
round.
"Come in, Charles," said Margaret kindly. "Could
you help us at all? We are again in trouble."
"I'm afraid I cannot. What are the facts? We are all
mad more or less, you know, in these days."
294
"The facts are as follows," replied Tibby, who had at
times a pedantic lucidity. "The facts are that she has
been in England for three days and will not see us. She
has forbidden the bankers to give us her address. She
refuses to answer questions. Margaret finds her letters
colourless. There are other facts, but these are the most
striking."
"She has never behaved like this before, then?" asked
Henry.
"Of course not!" said his wife, with a frown.
"Well, my dear, how am I to know?"
A senseless spasm of annoyance came over her. "You
know quite well that Helen never sins against affec-
tion," she said. "You must have noticed that much in
her, surely."
"Oh yes; she and I have always hit it off together."
"No, Henry can't you see? I don't mean that."
She recovered herself, but not before Charles had ob-
served her. Stupid and attentive, he was watching the
scene.
"I was meaning that when she was eccentric in the
past, one could trace it back to the heart in the long run.
She behaved oddly because she cared for someone, or
wanted to help them. There's no possible excuse for her
now. She is grieving us deeply, and that is why I am
sure that she is not well. 'Mad' is too terrible a word,
but she is not well. I shall never believe it. I shouldn't
discuss my sister with you if I thought she was well-
trouble you about her, I mean."
Henry began to grow serious. Ill-health was to him
something perfectly definite. Generally well himself, he
could not realize that we sink to it by slow gradations.
The sick had no rights; they were outside the pale; one
could lie to them remorselessly. When his first wife was
seized he had promised to take her down into Hertford-
shire, but meanwhile arranged with a nursing-home in-
295
stead. Helen, too, was ill. And the plan that he sketched
out for her capture, clever and well-meaning as it was,
drew its ethics from the wolf-pack.
"You want to get hold of her?" he said. "That's the
problem, isn't it? She has got to see a doctor."
"For all I know, she has seen one already."
"Yes, yes; don't interrupt." He rose to his feet and
thought intently. The genial, tentative host disappeared,
and they saw instead the man who had carved money
out of Greece and Africa, and bought forests from the
natives for a few bottles of gin. "I've got it," he said at
last. "It's perfectly easy. Leave it to me. We'll send her
down to Howards End."
"How will you do that?"
"After her books. Tell her that she must unpack them
herself. Then you can meet her there."
"But, Henry, that's just what she won't let me do.
It's part of her whatever it isnever to see me."
"Of course you won't tell her you're going. When
she is there, looking at the cases, you'll just stroll in. If
nothing is wrong with her, so much the better. But
there'll be the motor round the corner, and we can run
her up to a specialist in no time."
Margaret shook her head. "It's quite impossible."
"Why?"
"It doesn't seem impossible to me," said Tibby; "it
is surely a very tippy plan."
"It is impossible, because" She looked at her hus-
band sadly. "It's not the particular language that Helen
and I talk, if you see my meaning. It would do splen-
didly for other people, whom I don't blame."
"But Helen doesn't talk," said Tibby. "That's our
whole difficulty. She won't talk your particular lan-
guage, and on that account you think she's ill."
"No, Henry; it's sweet of you, but I couldn't."
"I see," he said; "you have scruples."
"I suppose so."
296
"And sooner than go against them, you would have
your sister suffer. You could have got her down to
Swanage by a word, but you had scruples. And scruples
are all very well. I am as scrupulous as any man alive, I
hope; but when it is a case like this, when there is a
question of madness "
"I deny it's madness/'
"You said just now"
"It's madness when I say it, but not when you say
it."
Henry shrugged his shoulders. "Margaret! Marga-
ret!" he groaned. "No education can teach a woman
logic. Now, my dear, my time is valuable. Do you want
me to help you or not?"
"Not in that way."
"Answer my question. Plain question, plain answer.
Do-"
Charles surprised them by interrupting. "Pater, we
may as well keep Howards End out of it," he said.
"Why, Charles?"
Charles could give no reason; but Margaret felt as if,
over tremendous distance, a salutation had passed be-
tween them.
"The whole house is at sixes and sevens," he said
crossly. "We don't want any more mess."
"Who's 'we'?" asked his father. "My boy, pray,
who's 'we'?"
"I am sure I beg your pardon," said Charles. "I ap-
pear always to be intruding."
By now Margaret wished she had never mentioned
her trouble to her husband. Retreat was impossible. He
was determined to push the matter to a satisfactory con-
clusion, and Helen faded as he talked. Her fair, flying
hair and eager eyes counted for nothing, for she was ill,
without rights, and any of her friends might hunt her.
Sick at heart, Margaret joined in the chase. She wrote
her sister a lying letter, at her husband's dictation; she
297
said the furniture was all at Howards End, but could be
seen on Monday next at 3 p.m., when a charwoman
would be in attendance. It was a cold letter, and the
more plausible for that. Helen would think she was of-
fended. And on Monday next she and Henry were to
lunch with Dolly, and then ambush themselves in the
garden.
After they had gone, Mr. Wilcox said to his son: "I
can't have this sort of behavior, my boy. Margaret's too
sweet-natured to mind, but I mind for her."
Charles made no answer.
"Is anything wrong with you, Charles, this after-
noon?"
"No, Pater; but you may be taking on a bigger busi-
ness than you reckon."
"How?"
"Don't ask me."
CHAPTER
35
One speaks of the moods of spring, but the days that
are her true children have only one mood; they are
all full of the rising and dropping of winds, and the
whistling of birds. New flowers may come out, the
green embroidery of the hedges increase, but the same
heaven broods overhead, soft, thick, and blue, the
same figures, seen and unseen, are wandering by cop-
pice and meadow. The morning that Margaret had
spent with Miss Avery, and the afternoon she set out
to entrap Helen, were the scales of a single balance.
Time might never have moved, rain never have fallen,
and man alone, with his schemes and ailments, was
troubling Nature until he saw her through a veil of
tears.
298
She protested no more. Whether Henry was right or
wrong, he was most kind, and she knew of no other
standard by which to judge him. She must trust him
absolutely. As soon as he had taken up a business, his
obtuseness vanished. He profited by the slightest indi-
cations, and the capture of Helen promised to be staged
as deftly as the marriage of Evie.
They went down in the morning as arranged, and he
discovered that their victim was actually in Hilton. On
his arrival he called at all the livery-stables in the village
and had a few minutes' serious conversation with the
proprietors. What he said, Margaret did not know-
perhaps not the truth; but news arrived after lunch that
a lady had come by the London train, and had taken a fly
to Howards End.
"She was bound to drive," said Henry. "There will
be her books."
"I cannot make it out," said Margaret for the hun-
dredth time.
"Finish your coffee, dear. We must be off."
"Yes, Margaret, you know you must take plenty,"
said Dolly.
Margaret tried, but suddenly lifted her hand to her
eyes. Dolly stole glances at her father-in-law which he
did not answer. In the silence the motor came round to
the door.
"You're not fit for it," he said anxiously. "Let me go
alone. I know exactly what to do."
"Oh yes, I am fit," said Margaret, uncovering her
face. "Only most frightfully worried. I cannot feel that
Helen is really alive. Her letters and telegrams seem to
have come from someone else. Her voice isn't in them.
I don't believe your driver really saw her at the station.
I wish I'd never mentioned it. I know that Charles is
vexed. Yes, he is" She seized Dolly's hand and kissed
it. "There, Dolly will forgive me. There. Now we'll be
off."
299
Henry had been looking at her closely. He did not
like this breakdown.
' 'Don't you want to tidy yourself?" he asked.
''Have I time?"
"Yes, plenty."
She went to the lavatory by the front door, and as
soon as the bolt slipped, Mr. Wilcox said quietly:
"Dolly, I'm going without her."
Dolly's eyes lit up with vulgar excitement. She fol-
lowed him on tip-toe out to the car.
"Tell her I thought it best."
"Yes, Mr. Wilcox, I see."
"Say anything you like. All right."
The car started well, and with ordinary luck would
have got away. But Porgly-woggles, who was playing in
the garden, chose this moment to sit down in the middle
of the path. Crane, in trying to pass him, ran one wheel
over a bed of wallflowers. Dolly screamed. Margaret,
hearing the noise, rushed out hatless, and was in time
to jump on the footboard. She said not a single word:
he was only treating her as she had treated Helen, and
her rage at his dishonesty only helped to indicate what
Helen would feel against them. She thought: "I deserve
it: I am punished for lowering my colours." And she
accepted his apologies with a calmness that astonished
him.
"I still consider you are not fit for it," he kept saying.
"Perhaps I was not at lunch. But the whole thing is
spread clearly before me now."
"I was meaning to act for the best."
"Just lend me your scarf, will you? This wind takes
one's hair so."
"Certainly, dear girl. Are you all right now?"
"Look! My hands have stopped trembling."
"And have quite forgiven me? Then listen. Her cab
should already have arrived at Howards End. (We're a
little late, but no matter.) Our first move will be to send
300
it down to wait at the farm, as, if possible, one doesn't
want a scene before servants. A certain gentleman" he
pointed at Crane's back " won't drive in, but will wait
a little short of the front gate, behind the laurels. Have
you still the keys of the house?"
"Yes."
"Well, they aren't wanted. Do you remember how
the house stands?"
"Yes."
"If we don't find her in the porch, we can stroll round
into the garden. Our object"
Here they stopped to pick up the doctor.
"I was just saying to my wife, Mansbridge, that our
main object is not to frighten Miss Schlegel. The house,
as you know, is my property, so it should seem quite
natural for us to be there. The trouble is evidently ner-
vouswouldn't you say so, Margaret?"
The doctor, a very young man, began to ask questions
about Helen. Was she normal? Was there anything con-
genital or hereditary? Had anything occurred that was
likely to alienate her from her family?
"Nothing," answered Margaret, wondering what
would have happened if she had added: "Though she
did resent my husband's immorality."
"She always was highly strung," pursued Henry,
leaning back in the car as it shot past the church. "A
tendency to spiritualism and those things, though noth-
ing serious. Musical, literary, artistic, but I should say
normal a very charming girl."
Margaret's anger and terror increased every moment.
How dare these men label her sister! What horrors lay
ahead! What impertinences that shelter under the name
of science! The pack was turning on Helen, to deny her
human rights, and it seemed to Margaret that all Schle-
gels were threatened with her. Were they normal? What
a question to ask! And it is always those who know
nothing about human nature, who are bored by psy-
301
chology and shocked by physiology, who ask it. How-
ever piteous her sister's state, she knew that she must
be on her side. They would be mad together if the world
chose to consider them so.
It was not five minutes past three. The car slowed
down by the farm in the yard of which Miss Avery was
standing. Henry asked her whether a cab had gone past.
She nodded, and the next moment they caught sight of
it at the end of the lane. The car ran silently like a beast
of prey. So unsuspicious was Helen that she was sitting
on the porch, with her back to the road. She had come.
Only her head and shoulders were visible. She sat
framed in the vine, and one of her hands played with
the buds. The wind ruffled her hair, the sun glorified it;
she was as she had always been.
Margaret was seated next to the door. Before her hus-
band could prevent her, she slipped out. She ran to the
garden gate, which was shut, passed through it, and
deliberately pushed it in his face. The noise alarmed
Helen. Margaret saw her rise with an unfamiliar move-
ment, and, rushing into the porch, learnt the simple ex-
planation of all their fears her sister was with child.
"Is the truant all right?" called Henry.
She had time to whisper: "Oh, my darling" The
keys of the house were in her hand. She unlocked Ho-
wards End and thrust Helen into it. "Yes, all right," she
said, and stood with her back to the door.
302
CHAPTER
36
"Margaret, you look upset!" said Henry. Mansbridge
had followed. Crane was at the gate, and the flyman had
stood up on the box. Margaret shook her head at them;
she could not speak any more. She remained clutching
the keys, as if all their future depended on them. Henry
was asking more questions. She shook her head again.
His words had no sense. She heard him wonder why
she had let Helen in. "You might have given me a knock
with the gate/' was another of his remarks. Presently
she heard herself speaking. She, or someone for her,
said: "Go away." Henry came nearer. He repeated:
"Margaret, you look upset again. My dear, give me the
keys. What are you doing with Helen?"
"Oh, dearest, do go away, and I will manage it all."
"Manage what?"
He stretched out his hand for the keys. She might
have obeyed if it had not been for the doctor.
"Stop that at least," she said piteously; the doctor
had turned back, and was questioning the driver of Hel-
en's cab. A new feeling came over her; she was fighting
for women against men. She did not care about rights,
but if men came into Howards End, it should be over
her body.
"Come, this is an odd beginning," said her husband.
The doctor came forward now, and whispered two
words to Mr. Wilcox the scandal was out. Sincerely
horrified, Henry stood gazing at the earth.
"I cannot help it," said Margaret. "Do wait. It's not
my fault. Please all four of you to go away now."
Now the flyman was whispering to Crane.
"We are relying on you to help us, Mrs. Wilcox,"
303
said the young doctor. "Could you go in and persuade
your sister to come out?"
"On what grounds?" said Margaret, suddenly look-
ing him straight in the eyes.
Thinking it professional to prevaricate, he murmured
something about a nervous breakdown.
"I beg your pardon, but it is nothing of the sort. You
are not qualified to attend my sister, Mr. Mansbridge. If
we require your services, we will let you know."
"I can diagnose the case more bluntly if you wish,"
he retorted.
"You could, but you have not. You are, therefore, not
qualified to attend my sister."
"Come, come, Margaret!" said Henry, never raising
his eyes. "This is a terrible business, an appalling busi-
ness. It's doctor's orders. Open the door."
"Forgive me, but I will not."
"I don't agree."
Margaret was silent.
"This business is as broad as it's long," contributed
the doctor. "We had better all work together. You need
us, Mrs. Wilcox, and we need you."
"Quite so," said Henry.
"I do not need you in the least," said Margaret.
The two men looked at each other anxiously.
"No more does my sister, who is still many weeks
from her confinement."
"Margaret, Margaret!"
"Well, Henry, send your doctor away. What possible
use is he now?"
Mr. Wilcox ran his eye over the house. He had a
vague feeling that he must stand firm and support the
doctor. He himself might need support, for there was
trouble ahead.
"It all turns on affection now," said Margaret. "Af-
fection. Don't you see?" Resuming her usual methods,
she wrote the word on the house with her finger.
304
"Surely you see. I like Helen very much, you not so
much. Mr. Mansbridge doesn't know her. That's all.
And affection, when reciprocated, gives rights. Put that
down in your note-book, Mr. Mansbridge. It's a useful
formula."
Henry told her to be calm.
"You don't know what you want yourselves," said
Margaret, folding her arms. "For one sensible remark I
will let you in. But you cannot make it. You would trou-
ble my sister for no reason. I will not permit it. I'll stand
here all the day sooner."
"Mansbridge," said Henry in a low voice, "perhaps
not now."
The pack was breaking up. At a sign from his master,
Crane also went back into the car.
"Now, Henry, you," she said gently. None of her
bitterness had been directed at him. "Go away now,
dear. I shall want your advice later, no doubt. Forgive
me if I have been cross. But, seriously, you must go."
He was too stupid to leave her. Now it was Mr. Mans-
bridge who called in a low voice to him.
"I shall soon find you down at Dolly's," she called,
as the gate at last clanged between them. The fly moved
out of the way, the motor backed, turned a little, backed
again, and turned in the narrow road. A string of farm
carts came up in the middle; but she waited through all,
for there was no hurry. When all was over and the car
had started, she opened the door. "Oh, my darling!"
she said. "My darling, forgive me/' Helen was standing
in the hall.
305
CHAPTER
37
Margaret bolted the door on the inside. Then she would
have kissed her sister, but Helen, in a dignified voice
that came strangely from her, said:
"Convenient! You did not tell me that the books were
unpacked. I have found nearly everything that I want/'
"I told you nothing that was true."
"It has been a great surprise, certainly. Has Aunt Ju-
ley been ill?"
"Helen, you wouldn't think I'd invent that?"
"I suppose not," said Helen, turning away, and cry-
ing a very little. "But one loses faith in everything after
this."
"We thought it was illness, but even thenI haven't
behaved worthily."
Helen selected another book.
"I ought not to have consulted anyone. What would
our father have thought of me?"
She did not think of questioning her sister, nor of
rebuking her. Both might be necessary in the future, but
she had first to purge a greater crime than any that Helen
could have committed that want of confidence that is
the work of the devil.
"Yes, I am annoyed," replied Helen. "My wishes
should have been respected. I would have gone through
this meeting if it was necessary, but after Aunt Juley
recovered, it was not necessary. Planning my life, as I
now have to do "
"Come away from those books," called Margaret.
"Helen, do talk to me."
"I was just saying that I have stopped living haphaz-
ard. One can't go through a great deal of" she missed
306
out the noun"without planning one's actions in ad-
vance. I am going to have a child in June, and, in the
first place, conversations, discussions, excitement, are
not good for me. I will go through them if necessary,
but only then. In the second place, I have no right to
trouble people. I cannot fit in with England as I know
it. I have done something that the English never pardon,
It would not be right for them to pardon it. So I must
live where I am not known."
"But why didn't you tell me, dearest?"
"Yes," replied Helen judicially. "I might have, but
decided to wait."
"I believe you would never have told me."
"Oh yes, I should. We have taken a flat in Munich."
Margaret glanced out of the window.
"By 'we' I mean myself and Monica. But for her, I
am and have been and always wish to be alone."
"I have not heard of Monica."
"You wouldn't have. She's an Italian by birth, at
least. She makes her living by journalism. I met her orig-
inally on Garda. Monica is much the best person to see
me through."
"You are very fond of her, then."
"She has been extraordinarily sensible with me."
Margaret guessed at Monica's type "Italiano Ingle-
siato" they had named it: the crude feminist of the
South, whom one respects but avoids. And Helen had
turned to it in her need!
"You must not think that we shall never meet," said
Helen, with a measured kindness. "I shall always have
a room for you when you can be spared, and the longer
you can be with me the better. But you haven't under-
stood yet, Meg, and of course it is very difficult for you.
This is a shock to you. It isn't to me, who have been
thinking over our futures for many months, and they
won't be changed by a slight contretemps such as this.
I cannot live in England."
307
' 'Helen, you've not forgiven me for my treachery.
You couldn't talk like this to me if you had."
"Oh, Meg dear, why do we talk at all?" She dropped
a book and sighed wearily. Then, recovering herself, she
said: "Tell me, how is it that all the books are down
here?"
"Series of mistakes."
"And a great deal of the furniture has been un-
packed."
"AIL"
"Who lives here, then?"
"No one."
"I suppose you are letting it, though."
"The house is dead," said Margaret with a frown.
"Why worry on about it?"
"But I am interested. You talk as if I had lost all my
interest in life. I am still Helen, I hope. Now, this hasn't
the feel of a dead house. The hall seems more alive even
than in the old days, when it held the Wilcoxes' own
things."
"Interested, are you? Very well, I must tell you, I
suppose. My husband lent it on condition we but by a
mistake all our things were unpacked, and Miss Avery,
instead of" She stopped. "Look here, I can't go on
like this. I warn you I won't. Helen, why should you be
so miserably unkind to me, simply because you hate
Henry?"
"I don't hate him now," said Helen. "I have stopped
being a schoolgirl, and, Meg, once again, I'm not being
unkind. But as for fitting in with your English life no,
put it out of your head at once. Imagine a visit from me
at Ducie Street! It's unthinkable."
Margaret could not contradict her. It was appalling to
see her quietly moving forward with her plans, not bit-
ter or excitable, neither asserting innocence nor confess-
ing guilt, merely desiring freedom and the company of
those who would not blame her. She had been
308
through how much? Margaret did not know. But it was
enough to part her from old habits as well as old friends.
"Tell me about yourself," said Helen, who had cho-
sen her books, and was lingering over the furniture.
"There's nothing to tell."
"But your marriage has been happy, Meg?"
"Yes, but I don't feel inclined to talk."
"You feel as I do."
"Not that, but I can't."
"No more can I. It is a nuisance, but no good trying."
Something had come between them. Perhaps it was
Society, which henceforward would exclude Helen. Per-
haps it was a third life, already potent as a spirit. They
could find no meeting-place. Both suffered acutely, and
were not comforted by the knowledge that affection sur-
vived.
"Look here, Meg, is the coast clear?"
"You mean that you want to go away from me?"
"I suppose so dear old lady! it isn't any use. I knew
we should have nothing to say. Give my love to Aunt
Juley and Tibby, and take more yourself than I can say.
Promise to come and see me in Munich later."
"Certainly, dearest."
"For that is all we can do."
It seemed so. Most ghastly of all was Helen's com-
mon sense: Monica had been extraordinarily good for
her.
"I am glad to have seen you and the things." She
looked at the bookcase lovingly, as if she was saying
farewell to the past.
Margaret unbolted the door. She remarked: "The car
has gone, and here's your cab."
She led the way to it, glancing at the leaves and the
sky. The spring had never seemed more beautiful. The
driver, who was leaning on the gate, called out: "Please,
lady, a message," and handed her Henry's visiting-card
through the bars.
309
"How did this come?" she asked.
Crane had returned with it almost at once.
She read the card with annoyance. It was covered
with instructions in domestic French. When she and her
sister had talked, she was to come back for the night to
Dolly's, "fl faut dormir sur ce sujet." While Helen was
to be found "une confortable chambre h 1'hotel." The
final sentence displeased her greatly until she remem-
bered that the Charleses had only one spare room, and
so could not invite a third guest.
"Henry would have done what he could/' she inter-
preted.
Helen had not followed her into the garden. The door
was open, she lost her inclination to fly. She remained
in the hall, going from bookcase to table. She grew more
like the old Helen, irresponsible and charming.
"This is Mr. Wilcox's house?" she inquired.
"Surely you remember Howards End?"
"Remember? I who remember everything! But it looks
to be ours now."
"Miss Avery was extraordinary," said Margaret, her
own spirits lightening a little. Again she was invaded by
a slight feeling of disloyalty. But it brought her relief,
and she yielded to it. "She loved Mrs. Wilcox, and
would rather furnish her house with our things than
think of it empty. In consequence, here are all the library
books."
"Not all the books. She hasn't unpacked the Art
Books, in which she may show her sense. And we never
used to have the sword here."
"The sword looks well, though."
"Magnificent."
"Yes, doesn't it?"
"Where's the piano, Meg?"
"I warehoused that in London. Why?"
"Nothing."
310
"Curious, too, that the carpet fits/'
"The carpet's a mistake/' announced Helen. "I know
that we had it in London, but this floor ought to be bare.
It is far too beautiful."
"You still have a mania for under-furnishing. Would
you care to come into the dining-room before you start?
There's no carpet there."
They went in, and each minute their talk became more
natural.
"Oh, what a place for mother's chiffonier!" cried
Helen.
"Look at the chairs, though."
"Oh, look at them! Wickham Place faced north, didn't
it?"
"North-west."
"Anyhow, it is thirty years since any of those chairs
have felt the sun. Feel. Their little backs are quite
warm."
"But why has Miss Avery made them set to partners?
I shall just"
"Over here, Meg. Put it so that any one sitting will
see the lawn/'
Margaret moved a chair. Helen sat down in it.
"Ye-es. The window's too high."
"Try a drawing-room chair."
"No, I don't like the drawing-room so much. The
beam has been match-boarded. It would have been so
beautiful otherwise."
"Helen, what a memory you have for some things!
You're perfectly right. It's a room that men have spoilt
through trying to make it nice for women. Men don't
know what we want"
"And never will."
"I don't agree. In two thousand years they'll know."
"But the chairs show up wonderfully. Look where
Tibby spilt the soup."
"Coffee. It was coffee surely."
Helen shook her head. "Impossible. Tibby was far
too young to be given coffee at that time."
"Was Father alive?"
"Yes."
"Then you're right and it must have been soup. I was
thinking of much later that unsuccessful visit of Aunt
Juley's, when she didn't realize that Tibby had grown
up. It was coffee then, for he threw it down on purpose.
There was some rhyme, 'Tea, coffee coffee, tea/ that
she said to him every morning at breakfast. Wait a min-
utehow did it go?"
"I know no, I don't. What a detestable boy Tibby
was!"
"But the rhyme was simply awful. No decent person
could have put up with it."
"Ah, that greengage tree," cried Helen, as if the gar-
den was also part of their childhood. "Why do I connect
it with dumbbells? And there come the chickens. The
grass wants cutting. I love yellow-hammers"
Margaret interrupted her. "I have got it," she an-
nounced.
"Tea, tea, coffee, tea,
Or chocolaritee.
"That every morning for three weeks. No wonder
Tibby was wild."
"Tibby is moderately a dear now," said Helen.
"There! I knew you'd say that in the end. Of course
he's a dear."
A bell rang.
"Listen! what's that?"
Helen said: "Perhaps the Wilcoxes are beginning the
siege."
"What nonsense listen!"
And the triviality faded from their faces, though it left
something behind the knowledge that they never could
312
be parted because their love was rooted in common
things. Explanations and appeals had failed; they had
tried for a common meeting-ground, and had only made
each other unhappy. And all the time their salvation
was lying round them the past sanctifying the present;
the present, with wild heart-throb, declaring that there
would after all be a future, with laughter and the voices
of children. Helen, still smiling, came up to her sister.
She said: "It is always Meg." They looked into each
other's eyes. The inner life had paid.
Solemnly the clapper tolled. No one was in the front.
Margaret went to the kitchen and struggled between
packing-cases to the window. Their visitor was only a
little boy with a tin can. And triviality returned.
"Little boy, what do you want?"
"Please, I am the milk."
"Did Miss Avery send you?" said Margaret, rather
sharply.
"Yes, please."
"Then take it back and say we require no milk."
While she called to Helen: "No, it's not the siege, but
possibly an attempt to provision us against one."
"But I like milk," cried Helen. "Why send it away?"
"Do you? Oh, very well. But we've nothing to put it
in, and he wants the can/'
"Please, I'm to call in the morning for the can," said
the boy.
"The house will be locked up then."
"In the morning would I bring eggs, too?"
"Are you the boy whom I saw playing in the stacks
last week?"
The child hung his head.
"Well, run away and do it again."
"Nice little boy," whispered Helen. "I say, what's
your name? Mine's Helen."
"Tom."
That was Helen all over. The Wilcoxes, too, would
313
ask a child its name, but they never told their names in
return.
"Tom, this one here is Margaret. And at home we've
another called Tibby."
"Mine are lop-eared/' replied Tom, supposing Tibby
to be a rabbit.
"You're a very good and rather a clever little boy.
Mind you come again. Isn't he charming?"
"Undoubtedly," said Margaret. "He is probably the
son of Madge, and Madge is dreadful. But this place has
wonderful powers."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know."
"Because I probably agree with you."
"It kills what is dreadful and makes what is beautiful
live."
"I do agree," said Helen, as she sipped the milk. "But
you said that the house was dead not half an hour ago."
"Meaning that I was dead. I felt it."
"Yes, the house has a surer life than we, even if it
was empty, and, as it is, I can't get over that for thirty
years the sun has never shone full on our furniture. Af-
ter all, Wickham Place was a grave. Meg, I've a startling
idea."
"What is it?"
"Drink some milk to steady you."
Margaret obeyed.
"No, I won't tell you yet," said Helen, "because you
may laugh or be angry. Let's go upstairs first and give
the rooms an airing."
They opened window after window, till the inside,
too, was rustling to the spring. Curtains blew, picture-
frames tapped cheerfully. Helen uttered cries of excite-
ment as she found this bed obviously in its right place,
that in its wrong one. She was angry with Miss Avery
for not having moved the wardrobes up. "Then one
would see really." She admired the view. She was the
Helen who had written the memorable letters four years
ago. As they leant out, looking westward, she said:
"About my idea. Couldn't you and I camp out in this
house for the night?"
"I don't think we could well do that," said Margaret.
"Here are beds, tables, towels"
"I know; but the house isn't supposed to be slept in,
and Henry's suggestion was"
"I require no suggestions. I shall not alter anything
in my plans. But it would give me so much pleasure to
have one night here with you. It will be something to
look back on. Oh, Meg lovey, do let's!"
"But, Helen, my pet," said Margaret, "we can't
without getting Henry's leave. Of course, he would give
it, but you said yourself that you couldn't visit at Ducie
Street now, and this is equally intimate."
"Ducie Street is his house. This is ours. Our furni-
ture, our sort of people coming to the door. Do let us
camp out, just one night, and Tom shall feed us on eggs
and milk. Why not? It's a moon."
Margaret hesitated. "I feel Charles wouldn't like it,"
she said at last. "Even our furniture annoyed him, and
I was going to dear it out when Aunt Juley's illness pre-
vented me. I sympathize with Charles. He feels it's his
mother's house. He loves it in rather an untaking way.
^ry I could answer for not Charles."
'I know he won't like it," said Helen. "But I am
fcoing to pass out of their lives. What difference will it
make in the long run if they say: 'And she even spent
the night at Howards End'?"
"How do you know you'll pass out of their lives? We
have thought that twice before."
"Because my plans" *
"which you change in a moment."
"Then because my life is great and theirs are little,"
said Helen, taking fibre. "I know of things they can't
know of, and so do you. We know that there's poetry.
315
We know that there's death. They can only take them on
hearsay. We know this is our house, because it feels
ours. Oh, they may take the title-deeds and the door-
keys, but for this one night we are at home."
"It would be lovely to have you once more alone,"
said Margaret. "It may be a chance in a thousand."
"Yes, and we could talk." She dropped her voice. "It
won't be a very glorious story. But under that wych-
elm honestly, I see little happiness ahead. Cannot I
have this one night with you?"
"I needn't say how much it would mean to me."
"Then let us."
"It is no good hesitating. Shall I drive down to Hilton
now and get leave?"
"Oh, we don't want leave."
But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imagination
and poetry perhaps on account of them she could
sympathize with the technical attitude that Henry would
adopt. If possible, she would be technical, too. A night's
lodging and they demanded no moreneed not in-
volve the discussion of general principles.
"Charles may say no/' grumbled Helen.
"We shan't consult him."
"Go if you like; I should have stopped without
leave."
It was the touch of selfishness, which was not enough
to mar Helen's character, and even added to its beauty.
She would have stopped without leave, and escaped to
Germany the next morning. Margaret kissed her.
"Expect me back before dark. I am looking forward
to it so much. It is like you to have thought of such a
beautiful thing."
"Not a thing, only an ending," said Helen rather
sadly; and the sense of tragedy closed in on Margaret
again as soon as she left the house.
She was afraid of Miss Avery. It is disquieting to fulfil
3x6
a prophecy, however superficially. She was glad to see
no watching figure as she drove past the farm, but only
little Tom, turning somersaults in the straw.
CHAPTER
38
The tragedy began quietly enough, and like many an-
other talk, by the man's deft assertion of his superiority.
Henry heard her arguing with the driver, stepped out
and settled the fellow, who was inclined to be rude, and
then led the way to some chairs on the lawn. Dolly, who
had not been "told," ran out with offers of tea. He re-
fused them, and ordered her to wheel baby's peram-
bulator away, as they desired to be alone.
"But the diddums can't listen; he isn't nine months
old," she pleaded.
"That's not what I was saying," retorted her father-
in-law.
Baby was wheeled out of earshot, and did not hear
about the crisis till later years. It was now the turn of
Margaret.
"Is it what we feared?" he asked.
"It is."
"Dear girl," he began, "there is a troublesome busi-
ness ahead of us, and nothing but the most absolute
honesty and plain speech will see us through." Marga-
ret bent her head. "I am obliged to question you on
subjects we'd both prefer to leave untouched. As you
know, I am not one of your Bernard Shaws who con-
sider nothing sacred. To speak as I must will pain me,
but there are occasions We are husband and wife, not
children. I am a man of the world, and you are a most
exceptional woman."
All Margaret's senses forsook her. She blushed, and
looked past him at the Six Hills, covered with spring
herbage. Noting her colour, he grew still more kind.
"I see that you feel as I felt when My poor little wife!
Oh, be brave! Just one or two questions, and I have
done with you. Was your sister wearing a wedding-
ring?"
Margaret stammered a "No."
There was an appalling silence.
"Henry, I really came to ask a favour about Howards
End."
"One point at a time. I am now obliged to ask for the
name of her seducer."
She rose to her feet and held the chair between them.
Her colour had ebbed, and she was grey. It did not dis-
please him that she should receive his question thus.
"Take your time," he counselled her. "Remember
that this is far worse for me than for you."
She swayed; he feared she was going to faint. Then
speech came, and she said slowly: "Seducer? No; I do
not know her seducer's name."
"Would she not tell you?"
"I never even asked her who seduced her," said Mar-
garet, dwelling on the hateful word thoughtfully.
"That is singular." Then he changed his mind. "Nat-
ural perhaps, dear girl, that you shouldn't ask. But until
his name is known, nothing can be done. Sit down. How
terrible it is to see you so upset! I knew you weren't fit
for it. I wish I hadn't taken you."
Margaret answered: "I like to stand, if you don't
mind, for it gives me a pleasant view of the Six Hills."
"As you like."
"Have you anything else to ask me, Henry?"
"Next you must tell me whether you have gathered
anything. I have often noticed your insight, dear. I only
wish my own was as good. You may have guessed
318
something, even though your sister said nothing. The
slightest hint would help us."
"Who is 'we'?"
"I thought it best to ring up Charles."
"That was unnecessary," said Margaret, growing
warmer. "This news will give Charles disproportionate
pain."
"He has at once gone to call on your brother."
"That too was unnecessary."
"Let me explain, dear, how the matter stands. You
don't think that I and my son are other than gentlemen?
It is in Helen's interests that we are acting. It is still not
too late to save her name."
Then Margaret hit out for the first time. "Are we to
make her seducer marry her?" she asked.
"If possible. Yes."
"But, Henry, suppose he turned out to be married
already? One has heard of such cases."
"In that case, he must pay heavily for his miscon-
duct, and be thrashed within an inch of his life."
So her first blow missed. She was thankful of it. What
had tempted her to imperil both of their lives? Henry's
obtuseness had saved her as well as himself. Exhausted
with anger, she sat down again, blinking at him as he
told her as much as he thought fit. At last she said:
"May I ask you my question now?"
"Certainly, my dear."
"Tomorrow Helen goes to Munich "
"Well, possibly she is right."
"Henry, let a lady finish. Tomorrow she goes; to-
night, with your permission, she would like to sleep at
Howards End."
It was the crisis of his life. Again she would have
recalled the words as soon as they were uttered. She
had not led up to them with sufficient care. She longed
to warn him that they were far more important than he
319
supposed. She saw him weighing them, as if they were
a business proposition.
"Why Howards End?" he said at last. "Would she
not be more comfortable, as I suggested, at the hotel?"
Margaret hastened to give him reasons. "It is an odd
request, but you know what Helen is and what women
in her state are." He frowned, and moved irritably. "She
has the idea that one night in your house would give
her pleasure and do her good. I think she's right. Being
one of those imaginative girls, the presence of all our
books and furniture soothes her. This is a fact. It is the
end of her girlhood. Her last words to me were: 'A
beautiful ending/ "
"She values the old furniture for sentimental reasons,
in fact."
"Exactly. You have quite understood. It is her last
hope of being with it."
"I don't agree there, my dear! Helen will have her
share of the goods wherever she goes possibly more
than her share, for you are so fond of her that you'd
give her anything of yours that she fancies, wouldn't
you? and I'd raise no objection. I could understand it if
it was her old home, because a home, or a house" he
changed the word, designedly; he had thought of a tell-
ing point "because a house in which one has once lived
becomes in a sort of way sacred, I don't know why.
Associations and so on. Now, Helen has no associations
with Howards End, though I and Charles and Evie have.
I do not see why she wants to stay the night there. She
will only catch cold."
"Leave it that you don't see," cried Margaret. "Call
it fancy. But realize that fancy is a scientific fact. Helen
is fanciful, and wants to."
Then he surprised her a rare occurrence. He shot an
unexpected bolt. "If she wants to sleep one night, she
may want to sleep two. We shall never get her out of
the house, perhaps."
320
"Well?" said Margaret, with the precipice in sight.
"And suppose we don't get her out of the house? Would
it matter? She would do no one any harm."
Again the irritated gesture.
"No, Henry," she panted, receding. "I didn't mean
that. We will only trouble Howards End for this one
night. I take her to London tomorrow"
"Do you intend to sleep in a damp house, too?"
"She cannot be left alone."
"That's quite impossible! Madness. You must be here
to meet Charles."
"I have already told you that your message to Charles
was unnecessary, and I have no desire to meet him."
"Margaret my Margaret "
"What has this business to do with Charles? If it con-
cerns me little, it concerns you less, and Charles not at
all."
"As the future owner of Howards End," said Mr.
Wilcox, arching his fingers, "I should say that it did con-
cern Charles."
"In what way? Will Helen's condition depreciate the
property?"
"My dear, you are forgetting yourself/'
"I think you yourself recommended plain speaking/'
They looked at each other in amazement. The preci-
pice was at their feet now.
"Helen commands my sympathy," said Henry. "As
your husband, I shall do all for her that I can, and I have
no doubt that she will prove more sinned against than
sinning. But I cannot treat her as if nothing has hap-
pened. I should be false to my position in society if I
did."
She controlled herself for the last time. "No, let us
go back to Helen's request," she said. "It is unreason-
able, but the request of an unhappy girl. Tomorrow she
will go to Germany, and trouble society no longer. To-
night she asks to sleep in your empty housea house
321
which you do not care about, and which you have not
occupied for over a year. May she? Will you give my
sister leave? Will you forgive her as you hope to be
forgiven, and as you have actually been forgiven? For-
give her for one night only. That will be enough."
"As I have actually been forgiven ?"
"Never mind for the moment what I mean by that/'
said Margaret. "Answer my question."
Perhaps some hint of her meaning did dawn on him.
If so, he blotted it out. Straight from his fortress he an-
swered: "I seem rather unaccommodating, but I have
some experience of life, and know how one thing leads
to another. I am afraid that your sister had better sleep
at the hotel. I have my children and the memory of my
dear wife to consider. I am sorry, but see that she leaves
my house at once."
"You mentioned Mrs. Wilcox."
"I beg your pardon?"
"A rare occurrence. In reply, may I mention Mrs.
Bast?"
"You have not been yourself all day," said Henry,
and rose from his seat with face unmoved. Margaret
rushed at him and seized both his hands. She was trans-
figured.
"Not any more of this!" she cried. "You shall see the
connection if it kills you, Henry! You have had a mis-
tressI forgave you. My sister has a lover you drive
her from the house. Do you see the connection? Stupid,
hypocritical, cruel oh, contemptible! a man who in-
sults his wife when she's alive and cants with her mem-
ory when she's dead. A man who ruins a woman for
his pleasure, and casts her off to ruin other men. And
gives bad financial advice, and then says he is not re-
sponsible. These, man, are you. You can't recognize
them, because you cannot connect. I've had enough of
your unweeded kindness. I've spoUt you long enough.
All your life you have been spoiled. Mrs. Wilcox spoiled
322
you. No one has ever told you what you aremuddled,
criminally muddled. Men like you use repentance as a
blind, so don't repent. Only say to yourself: 'What
Helen has done, I've done/ "
"The two cases are different/' Henry stammered. His
real retort was not quite ready. His brain was still in a
whirl, and he wanted a little longer.
"In what way different? You have betrayed Mrs. Wil-
cox, Helen only herself. You remain in society, Helen
can't. You have had only pleasure, she may die. You
have the insolence to talk to me of differences, Henry?"
Oh, the uselessness of it! Henry's retort came.
"I perceive you are attempting blackmail. It is scarcely
a pretty weapon for a wife to use against her husband.
My rule through life has been never to pay the least
attention to threats, and I can only repeat what I said
before: I do not give you and your sister leave to sleep
at Howards End."
Margaret loosed his hands. He went into the house,
wiping first one and then the other on his handkerchief.
For a little she stood looking at the Six Hills, tombs of
warriors, breasts of the spring. Then she passed out into
what was now the evening.
CHAPTER
39
Charles and Tibby met at Ducie Street, where the latter
was staying. Their interview was short and absurd. They
had nothing in common but the English language, and
tried by its help to express what neither of them under-
stood. Charles saw in Helen the family foe. He had sin-
gled her out as the most dangerous of the Schlegels,
and, angry as he was, looked forward to telling his wife
how right he had been. His mind was made up at once:
323
the girl must be got out of the way before she disgraced
them further. If occasion offered, she might be married
to a villain or, possibly, to a fool. But this was a conces-
sion to morality, it formed no part of his main scheme.
Honest and hearty was Charles's dislike, and the past
spread itself out very clearly before him; hatred is a skil-
ful compositor. As if they were heads in a note-book, he
ran through all the incidents of the Schlegels' campaign:
the attempt to compromise his brother, his mother's leg-
acy, his father's marriage, the introduction of the fur-
niture, the unpacking of the same. He had not yet heard
of the request to sleep at Howards End; that was to be
their master-stroke and the opportunity for his. But he
already felt that Howards End was the objective, and,
though he disliked the house, was determined to defend
it.
Tibby, on the other hand, had no opinions. He stood
above the conventions: his sister had a right to do what
she thought right. It is not difficult to stand above the
conventions when we leave no hostages among them;
men can always be more unconventional than women,
and a bachelor of independent means need encounter
no difficulties at all. Unlike Charles, Tibby had money
enough; his ancestors had earned it for him, and if he
shocked the people in one set of lodgings he had only
to move into another. His was the leisure without sym-
pathyan attitude as fatal as the strenuous: a little cold
culture may be raised on it, but no art. His sisters had
seen the family danger, and had never forgotten to dis-
count the gold islets that raised them from the sea. Tibby
gave all the praise to himself, and so despised the strug-
gling and the submerged.
Hence the absurdity of the interview; the gulf be-
tween them was economic as well as spiritual. But sev-
eral facts passed: Charles pressed for them with an
impertinence that the undergraduate could not with-
stand. On what date had Helen gotie abroad? To whom?
324
(Charles was anxious to fasten the scandal on Ger-
many.) Then, changing his tactics, he said roughly: "I
suppose you realize that you are your sister's protec-
tor?''
"In what sense?"
"If a man played about with my sister, I'd send a
bullet through him, but perhaps you don't mind."
"I mind very much," protested Tibby.
"Who d'ye suspect, then? Speak out, man. One al-
ways suspects someone."
"No one. I don't think so." Involuntarily he blushed.
He had remembered the scene in his Oxford rooms.
"You are hiding something," said Charles. As inter-
views go, he got the best of this one. "When you saw
her last, did she mention anyone's name? Yes, or no!"
he thundered, so that Tibby started.
"In my rooms she mentioned some friends, called the
Basts-"
"Who are the Basts?"
"People friends of hers at Evie's wedding."
"I don't remember. But, by great Scott! I do. My aunt
told me about some tag-rag. Was she full of them when
you saw her? Is there a man? Did she speak of the man?
Or look here have you had any dealings with him?"
Tibby was silent. Without intending it, he had be-
trayed his sister's confidence; he was not enough inter-
ested in human life to see where things will lead to. He
had a strong regard for honesty, and his word, once
given, had always been kept up to now. He was deeply
vexed, not only for the harm he had done Helen, but
for the flaw he had discovered in his own equipment.
"I see you are in his confidence. They met at your
rooms. Oh, what a family, what a family! God help the
poor pater"
And Tibby found himself alone.
325
CHAPTER
40
Leonard he would figure at length in a newspaper re-
port, but that evening he did not count for much. The
foot of the tree was in shadow, since the moon was still
hidden behind the house. But above, to right, to left,
down the long meadow the moonlight was streaming.
Leonard seemed not a man, but a cause.
Perhaps it was Helen's way of falling in lovea cu-
rious way to Margaret, whose agony and whose con-
tempt of Henry were yet imprinted with his image.
Helen forgot people. They were husks that had enclosed
her emotion. She could pity, or sacrifice herself, or have
instincts, but had she ever loved in the noblest way,
where man and woman, having lost themselves in sex,
desire to lose sex itself in comradeship?
Margaret wondered, but said no word of blame. This
was Helen's evening. Troubles enough lay ahead of
her the loss of friends and of social advantages, the
agony, the supreme agony, of motherhood, which is
even yet not a matter of common knowledge. For the
present let the moon shine brightly and the breezes of
the spring blow gently, dying away from the gale of the
day, and let the earth, who brings increase, bring peace.
Not even to herself dare she blame Helen. She could
not assess her trespass by any moral code; it was every-
thing or nothing. Morality can tell us that murder is
worse than stealing, and group most sins in an order all
must approve, but it cannot group Helen. The surer its
pronouncements on this point, the surer may we be that
morality is not speaking. Christ was evasive when they
questioned Him. It is those that cannot connect who
hasten to cast the first stone.
326
This was Helen's evening won at what cost, and not
to be marred by the sorrows of others. Of her own trag-
edy Margaret never uttered a word.
"One isolates/' said Helen slowly. "I isolated Mr.
Wilcox from the other forces that were pulling Leonard
downhill. Consequently, I was full of pity, and almost
of revenge. For weeks I had blamed Mr. Wilcox only,
and so, when your letters came"
"I need never have written them," sighed Margaret,
"They never shielded Henry. How hopeless it is to tidy
away the past, even for others!"
"I did not know that it was your own idea to dismiss
the Basts."
"Looking back, that was wrong of me."
"Looking back, darling, I know that it was right. It is
right to save the man whom one loves. I am less enthu-
siastic about justice now. But we both thought you wrote
at his dictation. It seemed the last touch of his callous-
ness. Being very much wrought up by this time and
Mrs. Bast was upstairs. I had not seen her, and had
talked for a long time to Leonard I had snubbed him
for no reason, and that should have warned me I was
in danger. So when the notes came I wanted us to go to
you for an explanation. He said that he guessed the ex-
planationhe knew of it, and you mustn't know. I
pressed him to tell me. He said no one must know; it
was something to do with his wife. Right up to the end
we were Mr. Bast and Miss SchlegeL I was going to tell
him that he must be frank with me when I saw his eyes,
and guessed that Mr, Wilcox had ruined him in two
ways, not one. I drew him to me. I made him tell me. I
felt very lonely myself. He is not to blame. He would
have gone on worshipping me. I want never to see him
again, though it sounds appalling. I wanted to give him
money and feel finished. Oh, Meg, the little that is
known about these things!"
She laid her face against the tree.
3*7
"The little, too, that is known about growth! Both
times it was loneliness, and the night, and panic after-
wards. Did Leonard grow out of Paul?"
Margaret did not speak for a moment. So tired was
she that her attention had actually wandered to the
teeththe teeth that had been thrust into the tree's bark
to medicate it. From where she sat she could see them
gleam. She had been trying to count them. "Leonard is
a better growth than madness/' she said. "I was afraid
that you would react against Paul until you went over
the verge."
"I did react until I found poor Leonard. I am steady
now. I shan't ever like your Henry, dearest Meg, or even
speak kindly about him, but all that blinding hate is over.
I shall never rave against Wilcoxes any more. I under-
stafid how you married him, and you will now be very
happy."
Margaret did not reply.
"Yes," repeated Helen, her voice growing more
tender, "I do at last understand."
"Except Mrs. Wilcox, dearest, no one understands our
little movements."
"Because in death I agree."
"Not quite. I feel that you and I and Henry are only
fragments of that woman's mind. She knows every-
thing. She is everything. She is the house, and the tree
that leans over it. People have their own deaths as well
as their own lives, and even if there is nothing beyond
death, we shall differ in our nothingness. I cannot be-
lieve that knowledge such as hers will perish with
knowledge such as mine. She knew about realities. She
knew when people were in love, though she was not in
the room. I don't doubt that she knew when Henry de-
ceived her."
"Good night, Mrs. Wilcox," called a voice.
"Oh, good night, Miss Avery."
323
"Why should Miss Avery work for us?" Helen mur-
mured.
"Why, indeed?"
Miss Avery crossed the lawn and merged into the
hedge that divided it from the farm. An old gap, which
Mr. Wilcox had filled up, had reappeared, and her track
through the dew followed the path that he had turfed
over when he improved the garden and made it possible
for games.
"This is not quite our house yet, " said Helen. "When
Miss Avery called, I felt we are only a couple of tour-
ists."
"We shall be that everywhere, and for ever."
"But affectionate tourists"
"But tourists who pretend each hotel is their home."
"I can't pretend very long," said Helen. "Sitting un-
der this tree, one forgets, but I know that tomorrow I
shall see the moon rise out of Germany. Not all your
goodness can alter the facts of the case. Unless you will
come with me."
Margaret thought for a moment. In the past year she
had grown so fond of England that to leave it was a real
grief. Yet what detained her? No doubt Henry would
pardon her outburst, and go on blustering and mud-
dling into a ripe old age. But what was the good? She
had just as soon vanish from his mind.
"Are you serious in asking me, Helen? Should I get
on with your Monica?"
"You would not, but I am serious in asking you."
"Still, no more plans now. And no more reminis-
cences."
They were silent for a little. It was Helen's evening.
The present flowed by them like a stream. The tree
rustled. It had made music before they were born, and
would continue after their deaths, but its song was of
the moment. The moment had passed. The tree rustled
3*9
again. Their senses were sharpened, and they seemed
to apprehend life. Life passed. The tree rustled again.
" Sleep now/' said Margaret.
The peace of the country was entering into her. It has
no commerce with memory, and little with hope. Least
of all it is concerned with the hopes of the next five
minutes. It is the peace of the present, which passes
understanding. Its murmur came "now," and "now"
once more as they trod the gravel, and "now," as the
moonlight fell upon their father's sword. They passed
upstairs, kissed, and amidst the endless iterations fell
asleep. The house had enshadowed the tree at first, but
as the moon rose higher the two disentangled, and were
clear for a few moments at midnight. Margaret awoke
and looked into the garden. How incomprehensible that
Leonard Bast should have won her this night of peace!
Was he also part of Mrs. Wilcox's mind?
CHAPTER
41
Far different was Leonard's development. The months
after Oniton, whatever minor troubles they might bring
him, were all overshadowed by Remorse. When Helen
looked back, she could philosophize, or she could look
into the future and plan for her child. But the father saw
nothing beyond his own sin. Weeks afterwards, in the
midst of other occupations, he would suddenly cry out:
"Brute you brute, I couldn't have" and be rent into
two people who held dialogues. Or brown rain would
descend, blotting out faces and the sky. Even Jacky no-
ticed the change in him. Most terrible were his suffer-
ings when he awoke from sleep. Sometimes he was
happy at first, but grew conscious of a burden hanging
330
to him and weighing down his thoughts when they
would move. Or little irons scorched his body. Or a
sword stabbed him. He would sit at the edge of his bed,
holding his heart and moaning: "Oh, what shall I do,
whatever shall I do?" Nothing brought ease. He could
put distance between him and the trespass, but it grew
in his soul.
Remorse is not among the eternal verities. The Greeks
were right to dethrone her. Her action is too capricious,
as though the Erinyes selected for punishment only cer-
tain men and certain sins. And of all means to regener-
ation, Remorse is surely the most wasteful. It cuts away
healthy tissues with the poisoned. It is a knife that
probes far deeper than the evil. Leonard was driven
straight through its torments and emerged pure, but en-
feebleda better man, who would never lose control of
himself again, but also a smaller man, who had less to
control. Nor did purity mean peace, The use of the knife
can become as hard to shake off as passion itself, and
Leonard continued to start with a cry out of dreams.
He built up a situation that was far enough from the
truth. It never occurred to him that Helen was to blame.
He forgot the intensity of their talk, the charm that had
been lent him by sincerity, the magic of Oniton under
darkness and of the whispering river. Helen loved the
absolute. Leonard had been ruined absolutely, and had
appeared to her as a man apart, isolated from the world.
A real man, who cared for adventure and beauty, who
desired to live decently and pay his way, who could
have travelled more gloriously through life than the Jug-
gernaut car that was crushing him. Memories of Evie's
wedding had warped her, the starched servants, the
yards of uneaten food, the rustle of overdressed women,
motor-cars oozing grease on the gravel, rubbish on a
pretentious band. She had tasted the lees of this on her
arrival: in the darkness, after failure, they intoxicated
331
her. She and the victim seemed alone in a world of un-
reality, and she loved him absolutely, perhaps for half
an hour.
In the morning she was gone. The note that she left,
tender and hysterical in tone, and intended to be most
kind, hurt her lover terribly. It was as if some work of
art had been broken by him, some picture in the Na-
tional Gallery slashed out of its frame. When he recalled
her talents and her social position, he felt that the first
passer-by had a right to shoot him down. He was afraid
of the waitress and the porters at the railway-station. He
was afraid at first of his wife, though later he was to
regard her with a strange new tenderness, and to think:
"There is nothing to choose between us, after all."
The expedition to Shropshire crippled the Basts per-
manently. Helen in her flight forgot to settle the hotel
bill, and took their return tickets away with her; they
had to pawn Jacky's bangles to get home, and the smash
came a few days afterwards. It is true that Helen offered
him five thousand pounds, but such a sum meant noth-
ing to him. He could not see that the girl was desper-
ately righting herself, and trying to save something out
of the disaster, if it was only five thousand pounds. But
he had to live somehow. He turned to his family, and
degraded himself to a professional beggar. There was
nothing else for him to do.
"A letter from Leonard," thought Blanche, his sister;
"and after all this time." She hid it, so that her husband
should not see, and, when he had gone to his work,
read it with some emotion and sent the prodigal a little
money out of her dress allowance.
"A letter from Leonard!" said the other sister, Laura,
a few days later. She showed it to her husband. He
wrote a cruel, insolent reply, but sent more money than
Blanche, so Leonard soon wrote to him again.
And during the winter the system was developed.
Leonard realized that they need never starve, because it
332
would be too painful for his relatives. Society is based
on the family, and the clever wastrel can exploit this
indefinitely. Without a generous thought on either side,
pounds and pounds passed. The donors disliked Leon-
ard, and he grew to hate them intensely. When Laura
censured his immoral marriage, he thought bitterly:
"She minds that! What would she say if she knew the
truth?" When Blanche's husband offered him work, he
found some pretext for avoiding it. He had wanted work
keenly at Oniton, but too much anxiety had shattered
him; he was joining the unemployable. When his
brother, the lay reader, did not reply to a letter, he wrote
again, saying that he and Jacky would come down to his
village on foot. He did not intend this as blackmail. Still,
the brother sent a postal order, and it became part of
the system. And so passed his winter and his spring.
In the horror there are two bright spots. He never
confused the past. He remained alive, and blessed are
those who live, if it is only to a sense of sinfulness. The
anodyne of muddledom, by which most men blur and
blend their mistakes, never passed Leonard's lips
And if I drink oblivion of a day,
So shorten I the stature of my soul
It is a hard saying, and a hard man wrote it, but it
lies at the foot of all character.
And the other bright spot was his tenderness for
Jacky. He pitied her with nobility now not the con-
temptuous pity of a man who sticks to a woman through
thick and thin. He tried to be less irritable. He wondered
what her hungry eyes desired nothing that she could
express, or that he or any man could give her. Would
she ever receive the justice that is mercy the justice for
by-products that the world is too busy to bestow? She
was fond of flowers, generous with money, and not re-
vengeful. If she had borne him a child, he might have
cared for her. Unmarried, Leonard would never have
333
begged; he would have flickered out and died. But the
whole of life is mixed. He had to provide for Jacky, and
went down dirty paths that she might have a few feath-
ers and dishes of food that suited her.
One day he caught sight of Margaret and her brother.
He was in St. Paul's. He had entered the cathedral partly
to avoid the rain and partly to see a picture that had
educated him in former years. But the light was bad, the
picture ill placed, and Time and Judgment were inside
him now. Death alone still charmed him, with her lap
of poppies, on which all men shall sleep. He took one
glance, and turned aimlessly away towards a chair. Then
down the nave he saw Miss Schlegel and her brother.
They stood in the fairway of passengers, and their faces
were extremely grave. He was perfectly certain that they
were in trouble about their sister.
Once outside and he fled immediately he wished
that he had spoken to them. What was his life? What
were a few angry words, or even imprisonment? He had
done wrong that was the true terror. Whatever they
might know, he would tell them everything he knew.
He re-entered St. Paul's. But they had moved in his ab-
sence, and had gone to lay their difficulties before Mr.
Wilcox and Charles.
The sight of Margaret turned remorse into new chan-
nels. He desired to confess, and though the desire is
proof of a weakened nature, which is about to lose the
essence of human intercourse, it did not take an ignoble
form. He did not suppose that confession would bring
him happiness. It was rather that he yearned to get clear
of the tangle. So does the suicide yearn. The impulses
are akin, and the crime of suicide lies rather in its dis-
regard for the feelings of those whom we leave behind.
Confession need harm no one it can satisfy that test
and though it was un-English, and ignored by our An-
glican cathedral, Leonard had a right to decide upon it.
Moreover, he trusted Margaret. He wanted her hard-
334
ness now. That cold, intellectual nature of hers would
be just, if unkind. He would do whatever she told him,
even if he had to see Helen. That was the supreme pun-
ishment she would exact. And perhaps she would tell
him how Helen was. That was the supreme reward.
He knew nothing about Margaret, not even whether
she was married to Mr. Wilcox, and tracking her out
took several days. That evening he toiled through the
wet to Wickham Place, where the new flats were now
appearing. Was he also the cause of their move? Were
they expelled from society on his account? Thence to a
public library, but could find no satisfactory Schlegel in
the directory. On the morrow he searched again. He
hung about outside Mr. Wilcox's office at lunch time,
and, as the clerks came out, said: "Excuse me, sir, but
is your boss married?" Most of them stared, some said
" What's that to you?" but one, who had not yet ac-
quired reticence, told him what he wished. Leonard
could not learn the private address. That necessitated
more trouble with directories and tubes. Ducie Street
was not discovered till the Monday, the day that Mar-
garet and her husband went down on their hunting ex-
pedition to Howards End.
He called at about four o'clock. The weather had
changed, and the sun shone gaily on the ornamental
steps black and white marble in triangles. Leonard
lowered his eyes to them after ringing the bell. He felt
in curious health: doors seemed to be opening and shut-
ting inside his body, and he had been obliged to sleep
sitting up in bed, with his back propped against the wall.
When the parlour-maid came, he could not see her face;
the brown rain had descended suddenly.
"Does Mrs. Wilcox live here?" he asked.
"She's out," was the answer,
"When will she be back?"
"I'll ask," said the parlour-maid,
Margaret had given instructions that no one who
335
mentioned her name should ever be rebuffed. Putting
the door on the chain for Leonard's appearance de-
manded thisshe went through to the smoking-room,
which was occupied by Tibby. Tibby was asleep. He had
had a good lunch. Charles Wilcox had not yet rung him
up for the distracting interview. He said drowsily: "I
don't know. Hilton. Howards End. Who is it?"
"I'll ask, sir."
"No, don't bother."
"They have taken the car to Howards End," said the
parlour-maid to Leonard.
He thanked her, and asked whereabouts that place
was.
"You appear to want to know a good deal," she re-
marked. But Margaret had forbidden her to be mysteri-
ous. She told him against her better judgment that
Howards End was in Hertfordshire.
"It is a village, please?"
"Village! It's Mr. Wilcox's private house at least, it's
one of them. Mrs. Wilcox keeps her furniture there. Hil-
ton is the village."
"Yes. And when will they be back?"
"Mr. Schlegel doesn't know. We can't know every-
thing, can we?" She shut him out, and went to attend
to the telephone, which was ringing furiously.
He loitered away another night of agony. Confession
grew more difficult. As soon as possible he went to bed.
He watched a patch of moonlight cross the floor of their
lodging, and, as sometimes happens when the mind is
overtaxed, he fell asleep for the rest of the room, but
kept awake for the patch of moonlight. Horrible! Then
began one of those disintegrating dialogues. Part of him
said: "Why horrible? It's ordinary light from the moon."
"But it moves." "So does the moon." "But it is a
clenched fist." "Why not?" "But it is going to touch
me." "Let it." And, seeming to gather motion, the patch
ran up his blanket. Presently a blue snake appeared;
336
then another, parallel to it. "Is there life in the moon?"
"Of course." "But I thought it was uninhabited." "Not
by Time, Death, Judgment, and the smaller snakes."
"Smaller snakes!" said Leonard indignantly and aloud.
"What a notion!" By a rending effort of the will he woke
the rest of the room up. Jacky, the bed, their food, their
clothes on the chair, gradually entered his conscious-
ness, and the horror vanished outwards, like a ring that
is spreading through water.
"I say, Jacky, I'm going out for a bit."
She was breathing regularly. The patch of light fell
clear of the striped blanket, and began to cover the shawl
that lay over her feet. Why had he been afraid? He went
to the window, and saw that the moon was descending
through a clear sky. He saw her volcanoes, and the
bright expanses that a gracious error has named seas.
They paled, for the sun, who had lit them up, was com-
ing to light the earth. Sea of Serenity, Sea of Tranquil-
lity, Ocean of the Lunar Storms, merged into one lucent
drop, itself to slip into the sempiternal dawn. And he
had been afraid of the moon!
He dressed among the contending lights, and went
through his money. It was running low again, but
enough for a return ticket to Hilton. As it clinked, Jacky
opened her eyes.
"Hullo, Len! What ho, Len!"
"What ho, Jacky! See you again later."
She turned over and slept.
The house was unlocked, their landlord being a sales-
man at Convent Garden, Leonard passed out and made
his way down to the station. The train, though it did not
start for an hour, was already drawn up at the end of
the platform, and he lay down in it and slept. With the
first jolt he was in daylight; they had left the gateways
of King's Cross, and were under blue sky. Tunnels fol-
lowed, and after each the sky grew bluer, and from the
embankment at Finsbury Park he had his first sight of
337
the sun. It rolled along behind the eastern smokes a
wheel, whose fellow was the descending moon and as
yet it seemed the servant of the blue sky, not its lord.
He dozed again. Over Tewin Water it was day. To the
left fell the shadow of the embankment and its arches;
to the right Leonard saw up into the Tewin Woods and
towards the church, with its wild legend of immortality.
Six forest trees that is a fact grow out of one of the
graves in Tewin churchyard. The grave's occupant that
is the legend is an atheist, who declared that if God
existed, six forest trees would grow out of her grave.
These things in Hertfordshire; and farther afield lay the
house of a hermit Mrs. Wilcox had known him who
barred himself up, and wrote prophecies, and gave all
he had to the poor. While, powdered in between, were
the villas of business men, who saw life more steadily,
though with the steadiness of the half-closed eye. Over
all the sun was streaming, to all the birds were singing,
to all the primroses were yellow, and the speedwell blue,
and the country, however they interpreted her, was ut-
tering her cry of "now." She did not free Leonard yet,
and the knife plunged deeper into his heart as the train
drew up at Hilton. But remorse had become beautiful.
Hilton was asleep, or at the earliest, breakfasting.
Leonard noticed the contrast when he stepped out of it
into the country. Here men had been up since dawn.
Their hours were ruled, not by a London office, but by
the movements of the crops and the sun. That they were
men of the finest type only the sentimentalist can de-
clare. But they kept to the life of daylight. They are En-
gland's hope. Clumsily they carry forward the torch of
the sun, until such time as the nation sees fit to take it
up. Half clodhopper, half board-school prig, they can
still thrtfw back to a nobler stock and breed yeomen.
At the chalk pit a motor passed him. In it was another
type whom Nature favours the Imperial. Healthy, ever
336
in motion, it hopes to inherit the earth. It breeds as
quickly as the yeoman, and as soundly; strong is the
temptation to acclaim it as a super-yeoman, who carries
his country's virtue overseas. But the Imperialist is not
what he thinks or seems. He is a destroyer. He prepares
the way for cosmopolitanism, and though his ambitions
may be fulfilled, the earth that he inherits will be grey.
To Leonard, intent on his private sin, there came the
conviction of innate goodness elsewhere. It was not the
optimism which he had been taught at school. Again
and again must the drums tap, and the goblins stalk
over the universe before joy can be purged of the su-
perficial. It was rather paradoxical, and arose from his
sorrow. Death destroys a man, but the idea of death
saves himthat is the best account of it that has yet been
given. Squalor and tragedy can beckon to all that is great
in us; and strengthen the wings of love. They can
beckon; it is not certain that they will, for they are not
love's servants. But they can beckon, and the knowl-
edge of this incredible truth comforted him.
As he approached the house, all thought stopped.
Contradictory notions stood side by side in his mind.
He was terrified but happy, ashamed but had done no
sin. He knew the confession: "Mrs. Wilcox, I have done
wrong," but sunrise had robbed its meaning, and he felt
rather on a supreme adventure.
He entered a garden, steadied himself against a mo-
tor-car that he found in it, found a door open and en-
tered a house. Yes, it would be very easy. From a room
to the left he heard voices, Margaret's amongst them.
His own name was called aloud, and a man whom he
had never seen said: "Oh/ is he there? I am not sur-
prised. I now thrash him within an inch of his life/'
"Mrs, Wilcox/' said Leonard. "I have done wrong."
The man took him by the collar and cried: "Bring me
a stick." Women were screaming. A stick, very bright,
339
descended. It hurt him, not where it descended, but in
the heart. Books fell over him in a shower. Nothing had
sense.
"Get some water," commanded Charles, who had
all through kept very calm. "He's shamming. Of course
I only used the blade. Here, carry him out into the
air."
Thinking that he understood these things, Margaret
obeyed him. They laid Leonard, who was dead, on the
gravel; Helen poured water over him.
"That's enough," said Charles.
"Yes, murder's enough," said Miss Avery, coming
out of the house with the sword.
CHAPTER
42
When Charles left Ducie Street he had caught the first
train home, but had no inkling of the newest develop-
ment until late at night. Then his father, who had dined
alone, sent for him, and in very grave tones inquired for
Margaret.
"I don't know where she is, Pater," said Charles.
"Dolly kept back dinner nearly an hour for her."
"Tell me when she comes in."
Another hour passed. The servants went to bed, and
Charles visited his father again, to receive further in-
structions. Mrs. Wilcox had still not returned.
"I'll sit up for her as late as you like, but she can
hardly be coming. Isn't she stopping with her sister at
the hotel?"
"Perhaps," said Mr. Wilcox thoughtfully"per-
haps."
"Can I do anything for you, sir?"
"Not tonight, my boy."
340
Mr. Wilcox liked being called sir. He raised his eyes
and gave his son more open a look of tenderness than
he usually ventured. He saw Charles as little boy and
strong man in one. Though his wife had proved unsta-
ble, his children were left to him.
After midnight he tapped on Charles's door. "I can't
sleep/' he said. "I had better have a talk with you and
get it over."
He complained of the heat. Charles took him out into
the garden, and they paced up and down in their dress-
ing-gowns. Charles became very quiet as the story un-
rolled; he had known all along that Margaret was as bad
as her sister.
"She will feel differently in the morning/' said Mr.
Wilcox, who had of course said nothing about Mrs. Bast.
"But I cannot let this kind of thing continue without
comment, I am morally certain that she is with her sister
at Howards End. The house is mine and, Charles, it
will be yours and when I say that no one is to live
there, I mean that no one is to live there. I won't have
it." He looked angrily at the moon. "To my mind, this
question is connected with something far greater, the
rights of property itself/'
"Undoubtedly," said Charles.
Mr. Wilcox linked his arm in his son's, but somehow
liked him less as he told him more. "I don't want you
to conclude that my wife and I had anything of the na-
ture of a quarrel. She was only overwrought, as who
would not be? I shall do what I can for Helen, but on
the understanding that they clear out of the house at
once. Do you see? That is a sine qua non."
"Then at eight tomorrow I may go up in the car?"
"Eight or earlier. Say that you are acting as my rep-
resentative, and, of course, use no violence, Charles."
On the morrow, as Charles returned, leaving Leonard
dead upon the gravel, it did not seem to him that he
had used violence* Death was due to heart disease. His
341
stepmother herself had said so, and even Miss Avery
had acknowledged that he only used the flat of the
sword. On his way through the village he informed the
police, who thanked him and said there must be an in-
quest. He found his father in the garden shading his
eyes from the sun.
"It has been pretty horrible/ 7 said Charles gravely.
"They were there, and they had the man up there with
them too."
"What what man?"
"I told you last night. His name was Bast."
"My God, is it possible?" said Mr. Wilcox. "In your
mother's house! Charles, in your mother's house!"
"I know, Pater. That was what I felt. As a matter of
fact, there is no need to trouble about the man. He was
in the last stages of heart disease, and just before I could
show him what I thought of him he went off. The police
are seeing about it at this moment."
Mr. Wilcox listened attentively.
"I got up thereoh, it couldn't have been more than
half past seven. The Avery woman was lighting a fire
for them. They were still upstairs. I waited in the draw-
ing-room. We were all moderately civil and collected,
though I had my suspicions. I gave them your message,
and Mrs. Wilcox said: 'Oh yes, I see; yes/ in that way
of hers."
"Nothing else?"
"I promised to tell you, 'with her love/ that she was
going to Germany with her sister this evening. That was
all we had time for."
Mr. Wilcox seemed relieved.
"Because by then I suppose the man got tired of hid-
ing, for suddenly Mrs. Wilcox screamed out his name. I
recognized it, and I went for him in the hall. Was I right,
Pater? I thought things were going a little too far."
"Right, my dear boy? I don't know. But you would '
have been no son of mine if you hadn't. Then did he
342
just just crumple up as you said?" He shrunk from
the simple word.
"He caught hold of the bookcase, which came down
over him. So I merely put the sword down and carried
him into the garden. We all thought he was shamming.
However, he's dead right enough. Awful business!"
"Sword?" cried his father, with anxiety in his voice.
"What sword? Whose sword?"
"A sword of theirs."
"What were you doing with it?"
"Well, didn't you see, Pater, I had to snatch up the
first thing handy. I hadn't a riding-whip or stick. I
caught him once or twice over the shoulders with the
flat of their old German sword."
"Then what?"
"He pulled over the bookcase, as I said, and fell,"
said Charles, with a sigh. It was no fun doing errands
for his father, who was never quite satisfied.
"But the real cause was heart disease? Of that you're
sure?"
"That or a fit. However, we shall hear more than
enough at the inquest on such unsavoury topics,"
They went into breakfast. Charles had a racking head-
ache, consequent on motoring before food. He was also
anxious about the future, reflecting that the police must
detain Helen and Margaret for the inquest and ferret the
whole thing out. He saw himself obliged to leave Hilton.
One could not afford to live near the scene of a scandal-
it was not fair on one's wife. His comfort was that the
pater's eyes were opened at last. There would be a hor-
rible smash-up, and probably a separation from Marga-
ret; then they would all start again, more as they had
been in his mother's time.
"I think I'll go round to the police-station," said his
father when breakfast was over.
"What for?" cried Dolly, who had still not been
"told."
343
"Very well, sir. Which car will you have?"
"I think I'll walk."
"It's a good half-mile," said Charles, stepping into
the garden. "The sun's very hot for April. Shan't I take
you up, and then, perhaps, a little spin round by
Tewin?"
"You go on as if I didn't know my own mind," said
Mr.. Wilcox fretfully. Charles hardened his mouth. "You
young fellows' one idea is to get into a motor. I tell you,
I want to walk: I'm very fond of walking."
"Oh, all right; I'm about the house if you want me
for anything. I thought of not going up to the office to-
day, if that is your wish."
"It is, indeed, my boy," said Mr. Wilcox, and laid a
hand on his sleeve.
Charles did not like it; he was uneasy about his fa-
ther, who did not seem himself this morning. There was
a petulant touch about him more like a woman. Could
it be that he was growing old? The Wilcoxes were not
lacking in affection; they had it royally, but they did not
know how to use it. It was the talent in the napkin, and,
for a warm-hearted man, Charles had conveyed very lit-
tle joy. As he watched his father shuffling up the road,
he had a vague regret a wish that something had been
different somewhere a wish (though he did not express
it thus) that he had been taught to say "I" in his youth.
He meant to make up for Margaret's defection, but knew
that his father had been very happy with her until yes-
terday. How had she done it? By some dishonest trick,
no doubt but how?
Mr. Wilcox reappeared at eleven, looking very tired.
There was to be an inquest on Leonard's body tomor-
row, and the police required his son to attend.
"I expected that," said Charles. "I shall naturally be
the most important witness there."
344
CHAPTER
43
Out of the turmoil and horror that had begun with Aunt
Juley's illness and was not even to end with Leonard's
death, it seemed impossible to Margaret that healthy life
should re-emerge. Events succeeded in a logical, yet
senseless, train. People lost their humanity, and took
values as arbitrary as those in a pack of playing-cards.
It was natural that Henry should do this and cause Helen
to do that, and then think her wrong for doing it; nat-
ural that she herself should think him wrong; natural
that Leonard should want to know how Helen was, and
come, and Charles be angry with him for coming
natural, but unreal. In this jangle of causes and effects,
what had become of their true selves? Here Leonard lay
dead in the garden, from natural causes; yet life was a
deep, deep river, death a blue sky, life was a house,
death a wisp of hay, a flower, a tower, life and death
were anything and everything, except this ordered in-
sanity, where the king takes the queen, and the ace the
king. Ah, no; there was beauty and adventure behind,
such as the man at her feet had yearned for; there was
hope this side of the grave; there were truer relation-
ships beyond the limits that fetter us now. As a prisoner
looks up and sees stars beckoning, so she, from the tur-
moil and horror of those days, caught glimpses of the
diviner wheels.
And Helen, dumb with fright, but trying to keep calm
for the child's sake, and Miss Avery, calm, but mur-
muring tenderly: "No one ever told the lad he'll have a
child" they also reminded her that horror is not the
end. To what ultimate harmony we tend she did not
know, but there seemed great chance that a child would
345
be born into the world, to take the great chances of
beauty and adventure that the world offers. She moved
through the sunlit garden, gathering narcissi, crimson-
eyed and white. There was nothing else to be done; the
time for telegrams and anger was over, and it seemed
wisest that the hands of Leonard should be folded on
his breast and be filled with flowers. Here was the fa-
ther; leave it at that. Let Squalor be turned into Tragedy,
whose eyes are the stars, and whose hands hold the
sunset and the dawn.
And even the influx of officials, even the return of the
doctor, vulgar and acute, could not shake her belief in
the eternity of beauty. Science explained people, but
could not understand them. After long centuries among
the bones and muscles it might be advancing to knowl-
edge of the nerves, but this would never give under-
standing. One could open the heart to Mr. Mansbridge
and his sort without discovering its secrets to them, for
they wanted everything down in black and white, and
black and white was exactly what they were left with.
They questioned her closely about Charles. She never
suspected why. Death had come, and the doctor agreed
that it was due to heart disease. They asked to see her
father's sword. She explained that Charles's anger was
natural, but mistaken. Miserable questions about Leon-
ard followed, all of which she answered unfalteringly.
Then back to Charles again. "No doubt Mr. Wilcox may
have induced death," she said; "but if it wasn't one
thing, it would have been another, as you yourselves
know." At last they thanked her, and took the sword
and the body down to Hilton. She began to pick up the
books from the floor.
Helen had gone to the farm. It was the best place for
her, since she had to wait for the inquest. Though, as if
things were not hard enough, Madge and her husband
had raised trouble; they did not see why they should
receive the offscourings of Howards End. And, of
346
course, they were right. The whole world was going to
be right, and amply avenge any brave talk against the
conventions. "Nothing matters," the Schlegels had said
in the past, "except one's self-respect and that of one's
friends." When the time came, other things mattered
terribly. However, Madge had yielded, and Helen was
assured of peace for one day and night, and tomorrow
she would return to Germany.
As for herself, she determined to go too. No message
came from Henry; perhaps he expected her to apolo-
gize. Now that she had time to think over her own trag-
edy, she was unrepentant. She neither forgave him for
his behaviour nor wished to forgive him. Her speech to
him seemed perfect. She would not have altered a word.
It had to be uttered once in a life, to adjust the lopsid-
edness of the world. It was spoken not only to her hus-
band, but to thousands of men like him a protest
against the inner darkness in high places that comes with
a commercial age. Though he would build up his life
without hers, she could not apologize. He had refused
to connect, on the clearest issue that can be laid before
a man, and their love must take the consequences,
No, there was nothing more to be done* They had
tried not to go over the precipice, but perhaps the fall
was inevitable. And it comforted her to think that the
future was certainly inevitable: cause and effect would
go jangling forward to some goal doubtless, but to none
that she could imagine. At such moments the soul re-
tires within, to float upon the bosom of a deeper stream,
and has communion with the dead, and sees the world's
glory not diminished, but different in kind to what she
has supposed. She alters her focus until trivial things
are blurred. Margaret had been tending this way all the
winter. Leonard's death brought her to the goal. Alas!
that Henry should fade away as reality emerged, and
only her love for him should remain clear, stamped with
his image like the cameos we rescue out of dreams.
347
With unfaltering eye she traced his future. He would
soon present a healthy mind to the world again, and
what did he or the world care if he was rotten at the
core? He would grow into a rich, jolly old man, at times
a little sentimental about women, but emptying his glass
with anyone. Tenacious of power, he would keep
Charles and the rest dependent, and retire from busi-
ness reluctantly and at an advanced age. He would set-
tle downthough she could not realize this. In her eyes
Henry was always moving, and causing others to move,
until the ends of the earth met. But in time he must get
too tired to move, and settle down. What next? The in-
evitable word. The release of the soul to its appropriate
Heaven.
Would they meet in it? Margaret believed in immor-
tality for herself. An eternal future had always seemed
natural to her. And Henry believed in it for himself. Yet,
would they meet again? Are there not rather endless
levels beyond the grave, as the theory that he had cen-
sured teaches? And his level, whether higher or lower,
could it possibly be the same as hers?
Thus gravely meditating, she was summoned by him.
He sent up Crane in the motor. Other servants passed
like water, but the chauffeur remained, though imper-
tinent and disloyal. Margaret disliked Crane, and he
knew it.
"Is it the keys that Mr. Wilcox wants?" she asked.
"He didn't say, madam."
"You haven't any note for me?"
"He didn't say, madam."
After a moment's thought she locked up Howards
End. It was pitiable to see in it the stirrings of warmth
that would be quenched for ever. She raked out the fire
that was blazing in the kitchen, and spread the coals in
the gravelled yard. She closed the windows and drew
the curtains. Henry would probably sell the place now.
She was determined not to spare him, for nothing
348
new had happened as far as they were concerned. Her
mood might never have altered from yesterday evening.
He was standing a little outside Charles's gate, and mo-
tioned the car to stop. When his wife got out he said
hoarsely: "I prefer to discuss things with you outside."
"It will be more appropriate in the road, I am afraid,"
said Margaret. "Did you get my message?"
"What about?"
"I am going to Germany with my sister. I must tell
you now that I shall make it my permanent home. Our
talk last night was more important than you have real-
ized, I am unable to forgive you and am leaving you."
"I am extremely tired," said Henry, in injured tones.
"I have been walking about all the morning, and wish
to sit down."
"Certainly, if you will consent to sit on the grass."
The Great North Road should have been bordered all
its length with glebe. Henry's kind had filched most of
it. She moved to the scrap opposite, wherein were the
Six Hills. They sat down on the farther side, so that they
could not be seen by Charles or Dolly.
"Here are your keys," said Margaret. She tossed
them towards him. They fell on the sunlit slope of grass,
and he did not pick them up.
"I have something to tell you," he said gently.
She knew this superficial gentleness, this confession
of hastiness, that was only intended to enhance her ad-
miration of the male.
"I don't want to hear it," she replied. "My sister is
going to be ill. My life is going to be with her now. We
must manage to build up something, she and I and her
child."
"Where are you going?"
"Munich. We start after the inquest, if she is not too
Ul."
"After the inquest?"
"Yes."
349
"Have you realized what the verdict at the inquest
will be?"
"Yes, heart disease."
"No, my dear; manslaughter."
Margaret drove her fingers through the grass. The hill
beneath her moved as if it was alive.
"Manslaughter," repeated Mr. Wilcox. "Charles may
go to prison. I dare not tell him. I don't know what to
dowhat to do. I'm broken I'm ended."
No sudden warmth arose in her. She did not see that
to break him was her only hope. She did not enfold the
sufferer in her arms. But all through that day and the
next a new life began to move. The verdict was brought
in. Charles was committed for trial. It was against all
reason that he should be punished, but the law, being
made in his image, sentenced him to three years' im-
prisonment. Then Henry's fortress gave way. He could
bear no one but his wife, he shambled up to Margaret
afterwards and asked her to do what she could with
him. She did what seemed easiest she took him down
to recruit at Howards End.
CHAPTER
44
Tom's father was cutting the big meadow. He passed
again and again amid whirring blades and sweet odours
of grass, encompassing with narrowing circles the sa-
cred centre of the field. Tom was negotiating with Helen.
"I haven't any idea," she replied. "Do you suppose
baby may, Meg?"
Margaret put down her work and regarded them ab-
sently. "What was that?" she asked.
"Tom wants to know whether baby is old enough to
play with hay?"
350
"I haven't the least notion," answered Margaret, and
took up her work again.
"Now, Tom, baby is not to stand; he is not to lie on
his face; he is not to lie so that his head wags; he is not
to be teased or tickled; and he is not to be cut into two
or more pieces by the cutter. Will you be as careful as
all that?"
Tom held out his arms.
"That child is a wonderful nursemaid," remarked
Margaret.
"He is fond of baby. That's why he does it!" was
Helen's answer. "They're going to be lifelong friends."
"Starting at the ages of six and one?"
"Of course. It will be a great thing for Tom."
"It may be a greater thing for baby."
Fourteen months had passed, but Margaret still
stopped at Howards End. No better plan had occurred
to her. The meadow was being recut, the great red pop-
pies were reopening in the garden. July would follow
with the little red poppies among the wheat, August
with the cutting of the wheat. These little events would
become part of her year after year. Every summer she
would fear lest the well should give out, every winter
lest the pipes should freeze; every westerly gale might
blow the wych-elm down and bring the end of all things,
and so she could not read or talk during a westerly gale.
The air was tranquil now. She and her sister were sitting
on the remains of Evie's rockery, where the lawn merged
into the field.
"What a time they all are!" said Helen. "What can
they be doing inside?" Margaret, who was growing less
talkative, made no answer. The noise of the cutter came
intermittently, like the breaking of waves. Close by them
a man was preparing to scythe out one of the dell-holes.
"I wish Henry was out to enjoy this/' said Helen.
"This lovely weather and to be shut up in the house!
It's very hard."
"It has to be," said Margaret. "The hay-fever is his
chief objection against living here, but he thinks it worth
while.
"Meg, is or isn't he ill? I can't make out."
"Not ill. Eternally tired. He has worked very hard all
his life, and noticed nothing. Those are the people who
collapse when they do notice a thing."
"I suppose he worries dreadfully about his part of the
tangle."
"Dreadfully. That is why I wish Dolly had not come,
too, today. Still, he wanted them all to come. It has to
be."
"Why does he want them?"
Margaret did not answer.
"Meg, may I tell you something? I like Henry."
"You'd be odd if you didn't," said Margaret.
"I usen't to."
"Usen't!" She lowered her eyes a moment to the
black abyss of the past. They had crossed it, always ex-
cepting Leonard and Charles. They were building up a
new life, obscure, yet gilded with tranquillity. Leonard
was dead; Charles had two years more in prison. One
usen't always to see dearly before that time. It was dif-
ferent now.
"I like Henry because he does worry."
"And he likes you because you don't."
Helen sighed. She seemed humiliated, and buried her
face in her hands. After a time she said: "Above love,"
a transition less abrupt than it appeared.
Margaret never stopped working.
"I mean a woman's love for a man. I supposed I
should hang my life on to that once, and was driven up
and down and about as if something was worrying
through me. But everything is peaceful now; I seem
cured. That Herr Forstmeister, whom Frieda keeps writ-
ing about, must be a noble character, but he doesn't see
35*
that I shall never marry him or anyone. It isn't shame
or mistrust of myself. I simply couldn't. I'm ended. I
used to be so dreamy about a man's love as a girl, and
think that, for good or evil, love must be the great thing.
But it hasn't been; it has been itself a dream. Do you
agree?"
"I do not agree. I do not."
"I ought to remember Leonard as my lover," said
Helen, stepping down into the field. "I tempted him
and killed him, and it is surely the least I can do. I would
like to throw out all my heart to Leonard on such an
afternoon as this. But I cannot. It is no good pretending.
I am forgetting him." Her eyes filled with tears. "How
nothing seems to match- how, my darling, my pre-
cious-." she broke off. "Tommy!"
"Yes, please?"
* "Baby's not to try and stand. There's somethihg
wanting in me. I see you loving Henry, and understand-
ing him better daily, and I know that death wouldn't
part you in the least. But I Is it some awful, appalling,
criminal defect?"
Margaret silenced her. She said: "It is only that peo-
ple are far more different than is pretended. All over the
world men and women are worrying because they can-
not develop as they are supposed to develop. Here and
there they have the matter out, and it comforts them.
Don't fret yourself, Helen. Develop what you have; love
your child, I do not love children. I am thankful to have
none. I can play with their beauty and charm, but that
is all nothing real, not one scrap of what there ought
to be. And others others go farther still, and move out-
side humanity altogether. A place, as well as a person,
may catch the glow. Don't you see that all this leads to
comfort in the end? It is part of the battle against same-
ness. Differences eternal differences, planted by God
in a single family, so that there may always be colour;
353
sorrow perhaps, but colour in the daily grey. Then I can't
have you worrying about Leonard. Don't drag in the
personal when it will not come. Forget him."
"Yes, yes, but what has Leonard got out of life?"
"Perhaps an adventure/'
"Is that enough?"
"Not for us. But for him."
Helen took up a bunch of grass. She looked at the
sorrel, and the red and white and yellow clover, and the
quaker grass, and the daisies, and the bents that com-
posed it. She raised it to her face.
"Is it sweetening yet?" asked Margaret.
"No, only withered."
"It will sweeten tomorrow."
Helen smiled. "Oh, Meg, you are a person," she said.
"Think of the racket and torture this time last year. But
now I couldn't stop unhappy if I tried. What a change
and all through you!"
"Oh, we merely settled down. You and Henry learnt
to understand one another and to forgive, all through
the autumn and the winter."
"Yes, but who settled us down?"
Margaret did not reply. The scything had begun, and
she took off her pince-nez to watch it.
"You!" cried Helen. "You did it all, sweetest, though
you're too stupid to see. Living here was your plan I
wanted you; he wanted you; and everyone said it was
impossible, but you knew. Just think of our lives with-
out you, Meg I and baby with Monica, revolting by
theory, he handed about from Dolly to Evie. But you
picked up the pieces, and made us a home. Can't it
strike you even for a moment that your life has been
heroic? Can't you remember the two months after
Charles's arrest, when you began to act, and did all?"
"You were both ill at the time," said Margaret. "I did
the obvious things. I had two invalids to nurse. Here
was a house, ready furnished and empty. It was obvi-
354
ous. I didn't know myself it would turn into a perma-
nent home. No doubt I have done a little towards
straightening the tangle, but things that I can't phrase
have helped me."
"I hope it will be permanent/' said Helen, drifting
away to other thoughts.
"I think so. There are moments when I feel Howards
End peculiarly our own."
"All the same, London's creeping."
She pointed over the meadow over eight or nine
meadows, but at the end of them was a red rust.
"You see that in Surrey and even Hampshire now,"
she continued. "I can see it from the Purbeck Downs.
And London is only part of something else, I'm afraid.
Life's going to be melted down, all over the world."
Margaret knew that her sister spoke truly. Howards
End, Oniton, the Purbeck Downs, the Oderberge, were
all survivals, and the melting-pot was being prepared
for them. Logically, they had no right to be alive. One's
hope was in the weakness of logic. Were they possibly
the earth beating time?
"Because a thing is going strong now, it need not go
strong for ever," she said. "This craze for motion has
only set in during the last hundred years. It may be fol-
lowed by a civilization that won't be a movement, be-
cause it will rest on the earth. All the signs are against
it now, but I can't help hoping, and very early in the
morning in the garden I feel that our house is the future
as well as the past."
They turned and looked at it. Their own memories
coloured it now, for Helen's child had been born in the
central room of the nine. Then Margaret said: "Oh, take
care!" for something moved behind the window of
the hall, and the door opened.
"The conclave's breaking at last. I'll go/'
It was Paul*
Helen retreated with the children far into the 6eld.
355
Friendly voices greeted her. Margaret rose, to encounter
a man with a heavy black moustache.
"My father has asked for you," he said with hostility.
She took her work and followed him.
"We have been talking business/' he continued, "but
I dare say you knew all about it beforehand."
"Yes, I did."
Clumsy of movement for he had spent all his life in
the saddle Paul drove his foot against the paint of the
front door. Mrs. Wilcox gave a little cry of annoyance.
She did not like anything scratched; she stopped in the
hall to take Dolly's boa and gloves out of a vase.
Her husband was lying in a great leather chair in the
dining-room, and by his side, holding his hand rather
ostentatiously, was Evie. Dolly, dressed in purple, sat
near the window. The room was a little dark and airless;
they were obliged to keep it like this until the carting
of the hay. Margaret joined the family without speaking;
the five of them had met already at tea, and she knew
quite well what was going to be said. Averse to wasting
her time, she went on sewing. The clock struck six.
"Is this going to suit everyone?" said Henry in a
weary voice. He used the old phrases, but their effect
was unexpected and shadowy. "Because I don't want
you all coming here later on and complaining that I have
been unfair."
"It's apparently got to suit us," said Paul.
"I beg your pardon, my boy. You have only to speak,
and I will leave the house to you instead."
Paul frowned ill-temperedly, and began scratching at
his arm. "As I've given up the outdoor life that suited
me, and I have come home to look after the business,
it's no good my settling down here," he said at last.
"It's not really the country, and it's not the town."
"Very well. Does my arrangement suit you, Evie?"
"Of course, Father."
"And you, Dolly?"
356
Dolly raised her faded little face, which sorrow could
wither but not steady. "Perfectly splendidly/' she said.
"I thought Charles wanted it for the boys but last time
I saw him he said no, because we cannot possibly live
in this part of England again. Charles says we ought to
change our name, but I cannot think what to, for Wilcox
just suits Charles and me, and I can't think of any other
name."
There was a general silence. Dolly looked nervously
round, fearing that she had been inappropriate. Paul
continued to scratch his arm.
"Then I leave Howards End to my wife absolutely,"
said Henry. "And let everyone understand that; and
after I am dead let there be no jealousy and no sur-
prise."
Margaret did not answer. There was something un-
canny in her triumph. She, who had never expected to
conquer anyone, had charged straight through these
Wilcoxes and broken up their lives.
"In consequence, I leave my wife no money," said
Henry. "That is her own wish. All that she would have
had will be divided among you. I am also giving you a
great deal in my lifetime, so that you may be indepen-
dent of me. That is her wish, too. She also is giving
away a great deal of money. She intends to diminish
her income by half during the next ten years; she in-
tends when she dies to leave the house to her to her
nephew, down in the field. Is all that clear? Does every-
one understand?"
Paul rose to his feet. He was accustomed to natives,
and a very little shook him out of the Englishman. Feel-
ing manly and cynical, he said: "Down in the field? Oh,
come! I think we might have had the whole establish-
ment, piccaninnies included/'
Mrs. Cahill whispered; "Don't, Paul. You promised
you'd take care/' Feeling a woman of the world, she
rose and prepared to take her leave.
357
Her father kissed her. "Good-bye, old girl," he said;
"don't you worry about me."
"Good-bye, Dad."
Then it was Dolly's turn. Anxious to contribute, she
laughed nervously, and said: "Good-bye, Mr. Wilcox.
It does seem curious that Mrs. Wilcox should have left
Margaret Howards End, and yet she gets it, after all."
From Evie came a sharply drawn breath. "Good-
bye," she said to Margaret, and kissed her.
And again and again fell the word, like the ebb of a
dying sea.
"Good-bye."
"Good-bye, Dolly."
"So long, Father."
"Good-bye, my boy; always take care of yourself."
"Good-bye, Mrs. Wilcox."
"Good-bye."
Margaret saw their visitors to the gate. Then she re-
turned to her husband and laid her head in his hands.
He was pitiably tired. But Dolly's remark had interested
her. At last she said: "Could you tell me, Henry, what
was that about Mrs. Wilcox having left me Howards
End?"
Tranquilly he replied: "Yes, she did. But that is a very
old story. When she was ill and you were so kind to
her, she wanted to make you some return, and, not be-
ing herself at the time, scribbled 'Howards End' on a
piece of paper. I went into it thoroughly, and, as it was
clearly fanciful, I set it aside, little knowing what my
Margaret would be to me in the future."
Margaret was silent. Something shook her life in its
inmost recesses, and she shivered.
"I didn't do wrong, did I?" he asked, bending down.
"You didn't, darling. Nothing has been done
wrong."
From the garden came laughter. "Here they are at
last!" exclaimed Henry, disengaging himself with a
35*
smile. Helen rushed into the gloom, holding Tom by
one hand and carrying her baby on the other. There were
shouts of infectious joy.
"The field's cut!" Helen cried excitedly "the big
meadow! We've seen to the very end, and it'll be such
a crop of hay as never!"
Weybridge, 1908-1910
359
Everyman's Library, founded in 1906 and relaunched
in 1991, aims to offer the most complete library in the
English language of the world's classics. Each volume is
printed in a classic typeface on acid-free, cream-wove
paper with a sewn full cloth binding.
780
Live Music Archive
Librivox Free Audio
Metropolitan Museum
Cleveland Museum of Art
Internet Arcade
Console Living Room
Books to Borrow
Open Library
TV News
Understanding 9/11